writer in wred

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One aspect of blogging I really struggle with is the urge to turn everything into a performance. I don’t want to calibrate everything I do and wear and eat for optimal clicks. I don’t want to take so many pictures of my food that I forget to eat it, and I refuse to turn Josh into an Instagram Husband.  I want my blog and my photos to serve my life, not the other way around. So a holiday break was just what the doctor ordered. I had a lovely Christmas in the woods with my family, and I didn’t take any pictures. Every artist should remember the difference between spectators and friends.

That said, I’ll be doing lots of posing and preening in the dresses I got for Christmas. Especially this vintage one from my mom. Would you believe I didn’t own a plain red dress before now? I’ve been such a loud dresser for so long that I’ve sorely neglected basics.

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Dress: vintage, via The Art of Vintage Dressing

Cape: from a friend

Everything else: thrifted

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In other news, as of a few days ago, I am officially three stories away from finishing the short-story collection I’ve been working on for…ever? (Probably.) It’s tentatively titled Watchers, it’s sort of New Weird/Flannery-O’Connor-meets-Toni-Morrison, and I am very proud of everything in it. The lineup:

  • The Undertaker’s Parasite (finished, my favorite story I’ve ever written)
  • He Called Himself Messiah (finished)
  • Regicide (finished but could use editing)
  • How to Leave a Cult (finished, previously published in an online magazine)
  • Orexia (unfinished)
  • Lolita the Second (finished)
  • Isolde (unfinished)
  • The Housewife’s Helpmeet (finished, a companion piece to The Undertaker’s Parasite)

Plus an untitled New England gothic project that’s rattling around in my head but that I haven’t actually started writing yet. It might go in this collection; it might not. But I’d like it to, because 9 is a better number than 8.

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Hoping against hope that I’ll have a book under my belt by this time next year!

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(The “no trespassing” sign refers to everything beyond the point of the brick wall, in case you’re a stickler for that sort of thing.)

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