There is no easy cure for depression. It feels like an experiment, trying to balance eating right, and exercising, and getting 8 hours of sleep, and sunshine, and journaling, and medicine. It’s frustrating and scary exploring what works, or doesn’t work. I wondered how far someone would go, what would
I think the most challenging thing about writing an unreliable narrator—and writing in general, really—can be when you’re too worried about being misinterpreted. […] Trust is the crux of it—you have to trust yourself as an artist to effectively share your vision, and you have to trust your reader’s intelligence.
Life is in its own way a series of little deaths, and shedding these skins/releasing older versions of ourselves is what makes it possible for us to change and grow. I’m not the same person I was fifteen years ago, or even five years ago—and that’s the way things should
Even when there’s zero physical danger, having something unwanted follow you around—gradually consuming your time/energy/strength to such a degree that you relent and accept it—can be real life-wrecker. Maybe there’s a very good reason for accepting it. Maybe you’ve got no other choice but to accept it. Maybe you’re just
The Book of Revelation has colonized my symbolic language without a clear or definable provenance. But can you write about queerness, about monstrous desire, about obsession, without calling the Devil or the Woman of the Apocalypse?
