On Making Space for Joy and Pain

Before heading to bed last night, I read a tweet from comedian Ron Funches that said: “Am I still allowed to tweet about wrestling or am I supposed to remain terrified 24 hours a day. It’s difficult to know right now.”

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On…Just a Few Words

This year’s events have wrecked my creative thought. Writing is labor most times, and my words are cinderblocks that I heave from my tongue. All that is to say, I have mangled many a blog draft and conversation these past few weeks trying to say something like it had to be magical.

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On Legacy and History

In January, which seems like eons ago, legacy and history were abstract concepts crystallizing in my mind. I wrestled with what they meant to me and my 2020 goals. I couldn’t quite distill what I wanted to say, but for the most part, I thought about them in terms of my writing career and how to best serve my local community.

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On Hauntings and Awakenings

I’ve always imagined hauntings to be a great chain-rattling affair with dim-lighting and a heartbeat racing so fast it feels close to bursting. Hauntings are most often written as spooky, unsettling moments that drive main characters out into the street or tumbling off their balconies, succumbing to their insanity. But that’s not my haunting. And it has nothing to do with ghosts.

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On Trying My Hand at Hope

A few weeks ago—back when we were complaining that Black History Month was cancelled and we should move it to June; back when our anxieties were high but not astronomical—I was scrolling Twitter and saw a tweet that asked writers to share the most hopeful poems, essays, and stories they had written. I didn’t post anything. And I didn’t bother reading the responses. Off the top of my head, I didn’t believe I had written anything that could be classified as “hopeful”—at least not how I saw it as the author. It’s always different for readers.

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On Working with What You’ve Got

The weather in Las Vegas hasn’t been magical lately.

The winds bluster against my house and whistle through the windowpanes. They threaten to lift my house from its foundation and blow it to a strange land. I’d much rather have the snow that a close friend of mine in Georgia is experiencing. In the videos she sends me, she timidly peers out of her apartment window and, later, steps outside, the world blanketed in freshly fallen snow. Baby blues, blood reds, and pine greens peek out, hinting at the hidden world below.

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