A “little” note from your writer in residence:

A few weeks ago, frustrated at my relentless artistic obscurity, I began emailing every agent in town asking them to please look at my website so they would, for the love of the Holy Spirit who visits the earth in the shape of a dove, consider taking me on as a client. Some wrote back to me, which really ever happens, and said that they were impressed with the work, however they were unwilling to represent poetry. They flat out and outright asked me for a novel.

Cue outrageous reaction of a complete drama queen which I am getting too old for now, fortunately.

Anyone who has ever known me for longer than five minutes has often wanted to hold a gun to my head because I have expressed obsessing with the idea of being a novelist for as long as I remember. Though I had been told I had talent, it was not enough, the critic in me was too rough, I was unable to start something which I considered worthy of the world’s time, my time, let alone future readers. I really have set the bar immensely high regarding this project, and I do not regret it. And I do not feel singular in my efforts. It brings me courage to know that there are others who are literally obsessed with the idea of creating a work of art, not only for the purpose of creating an immortal legacy which touches the lives and hearts of generations to come, but also because it feels necessary, like breathing, eating, reading, or sleeping.

There comes a point in the life of every artist where he or she has to choose between art and having a family. I think I made my choice years ago, before I was even eligible to date.

To wit, I have been working on something which could ideally resemble a novel. All the pieces are there, as the cliché posits, all I have to do is put them together.
I have been very fortunate as a writer to have social media at my disposal so as to test lines and ideas and even outrageous concepts with my friends online from time to time. This I recognise as a privilege, in the sense that writers as little as ten years ago did not have this possibility for feedback at their disposal. For me, every single one of you has been part of this journey.

As a writer, an artist, I do spend a lot of time in quiet rooms making works of art. But I have never once felt that they were entirely my own work. Whether they were a nod to another artist who initially inspired, a prepossession by a villainous demonmuse, or I am simply being guided by the Literary Overlords, only time will tell.

I am one of those finicky people who do not wish to jinx my work by discussing it, especially when it is at such a formative stage. But those who have read my assaults on the English language will not be entirely surprised. Well, maybe a little bit.

My aim is to baffle my audience as baffled as I am writing this.

Let’s just say I am beginning to undress Mary Shelley as I begin writing this.

Thank you for reading.


With love,



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