Tag: Family

If May can have more than one Moon

I haven’t been around here. Life has been so busy. I’ve focused (as much as I can) on developing a routine for things that require one. And simultaneously weaving the layers of life around and through those routines has been an ever-evolving challenge. As is the season of my life, it’s been all-consuming of this fickle and finite thing we’ve named time.

I don’t have any serious complaints about what’s most important. Life is what we make of the pieces we find and create, the energies we choose to connect and make new colours with. And those that leave a story on departing.

I haven’t been writing to publish, that’s why some of us are here, right? I’m sorry for that. It gnaws at my brain.

I’ve not committed to deadlines or accepted opportunities because I knew I’d unlikely be able to fulfil any promises, so I haven’t made what I’d break. A pause has been accepted for a time. I may not be completely on board —I sometimes think, ‘I’ll have time here!’, but it’s never so. The decision has been out of my hands. I’ve taken a while to accept that, actually—that I won’t be writing a new novella this week. But I will another day, the wheel is always turning.

You’ve heard my complaints of AI being used too deeply as writing tools, and with the movement there, how anyone can fire a line into a bot and publish what (surface level) appears to be a fairly decent constructed piece of ‘work’ via an article, poem, story, review, book by doing sweet fuck all is disheartening to say the very least. It kills a piece of my soul. A huge piece. This place is full of cheats, liars, manipulators—lazy, talentless, attention-grabbing fools masquerading as mentors, creators, artists—with their borrowed paragraphs kidding themselves that they could or would have created the piece—if they had the time or some other shit they tell themselves. Void of skill, void of an original fucking thought of their own, they’ll sign off a lie with pride, stamping their name to it. I’m not buying it. I never have. Perhaps that’s another reason why I’ve not found the energy to pour into the craft I love, nor had the drive to share—they’d steal your face if they could, as well as the real stories. Change a word here and there, and grin with a face full of stolen cream, declaring ‘mine’. Fuck off. I may be in a ranty place… it’s a human place though. You can trust that.

So, shall we have a sort of old-school bloggy lifey update? Yes, fuck it, let’s draw back the curtain for a peek.

I’ll start with this—since the close of my monogamous relationship, I’ve had the freedom to be myself more than I have in quite some time. Elements that had been neglected for a long time rose to the surface, needing nurturing and satiation, and those core needs have taken time and energy from other things—like writing, where my focus was already struggling. I recently shared some insight elsewhere into my life as far as my sexuality and relationship style(s) go, as these elements seem to spark curiosity, and have at points throughout my life, been used to pitch attacks. Growing up fairly openly pansexual (though bisexual was the term in my younger days) wasn’t all sunshine and groovy rainbows—have I shared the story here of when my parents realised that I wasn’t straight? That’s a belter. They were terrified I’d corrupt my younger sibling with my perverted ways—there were bible quotes and all sorts of hypocritical hilarity, and of course, what will people think of them to have spawned a queer daughter! The horror! And in those teen years, I was essentially made out to be ‘greedy’, and even ‘dirty’ for my sexuality. One of the people I trusted most at that time shuddered at the idea of dating someone who wasn’t ’straight’ or ‘gay’—‘pick one!’—because it’s a ‘choice’, right?

Sharing much in the way of specifics of friendships and romantic partnerships is something I’ve been reminded to be guarded with. People have a way of giving insights with a rusty blade straight to the gut (again, from my experience). Like they forget I feel anything at all. I’m not entitled to that—apparently. If I tell them it hurts, it’s twisted all about, (they may even raise an army by flashing a delusional doodle), and they say it’s me holding the knife—it’s bigger and hurts more. I’m (was) the doormat to drag their shitty boots on, who should remain mute for the privilege—perhaps that’s just family—mine at least. The fact that I have an abundance of self-acceptance and confidence in those aspects of my character has very much held steadfast against the grain of early criticism, judgment, and emotional attacks from ‘home’ outwards. How we process peace internally is of far greater value to one’s wellbeing and how we then engage with others than outside judgment and influences (even blood). Maybe that’s around about way of saying—fuck what anyone else thinks; it’s how you make peace and accept yourself, and how you treat others that really matters. Don’t be defined by how they treat you. 

Outside the ‘joys’ of the blood, I’ve always been questioned about my sexuality—some can’t read me—the gaydar might be screaming then I show up with a guy and my friends are like “oh, I forgot you like that too”. And alongside that, more recently, as I’m (happily) poly saturated, I get asked about my relationships too. I don’t hide who I am, but for the most part, I share what’s relevant to the conversation, and I’m mostly private about the one-to-ones. With that being said, I’m openly pansexual and polyamorous—closets are for shame, and I’m not ashamed of those parts of me. And yes, my children know too. As a parent, it’s important to demonstrate confident self-awareness, acceptance and diversity across the spectrums of sexuality and relationships, so I’d be a hypocrite if I ever concealed these aspects of me from the people I’m raising. I’ve never even considered that as optional. Why would I? I’m confident it enriches the dialogue and connection we share—they know they can come to me with anything, and of that I’m fairly certain. I only hope it sticks and helps them accept themselves as they experience their own path of getting to know themselves with confidence and acceptance. We cannot escape ourselves—inner peace and respect have to be priority (armour) against the outside noise.

My sexuality and attraction to another person are predominantly energy-centric. The evolution of my natural relationship style(s) is much the same. I’m very much of the mind that we should move in ways that enrich and enhance one another, lift each other, support, accept, love honestly—if that’s not the core energies, if any of that is opposite, then it’s not going anywhere but out of my life. Movement needs to flow mutually, respectfully and with communication that is clear in the particular connection—this, of course, has a natural variation of style. I’m also much a do as you say type; I trust action above words. I remind myself of this, as I’ve at times questioned my gut instinct when presented with lies from a mouth I believed I should trust, which creates a conflict between what we want to believe and the truth. Always go with truth, even when it hurts. My instinct is rarely wrong; I remind myself of this when something feels off. So many of us (sometimes with the best intentions) lie to ourselves—what we do and how we carry ourselves when we think no one is looking is the truth of the story. To quote a recent read from Bessel van der Kolk, “The greatest source of our suffering is the lies we tell ourselves”. I’m not keen on being in the fallout from such things. Though it happens with this human condition we’re afflicted with. I’m grateful to have communicative partners—even when we’ve faced some challenges (and will do again)—the developments have been enriching, as I’m sure they will continue to be. I’m grateful for each of them. 

I do not subscribe hierarchy in my relationships. It’s simply not in my nature. Each relationship deserves its own autonomy and room to breathe, move and develop its own rhythm. And I include my relationship with myself in those I consider—I now recognise, understand and respect my personal needs, specifically my need for physical space, alone time, and quiet. My energy needs time to reset and rest between just about every interaction—the amazing, the terrible and even the mundane. I am perhaps the textbook example of solo-polyamorous. When I use the term, it is in respect of my need for complete solo-autonomy; my relationship with myself is as important as those I have with my others. And with my current paramours and matamoros, I’m of a Kitchen Table Poly style overall. That fills my hippy heart with a massive hit of happy. I love and crave my partners’ happiness and fulfilment in their lives and other relationships. And it’s a privilege to know and experience the care they share with their others through their eyes—even when just a little.

We have different capacities when it comes to relationships. We have different capacities for time, for holding love, for being present. If we set aside the romantic and/or sexual for a moment and consider friendships. Some folks thrive and maintain many friendships, while others prefer a smaller circle—one that may or may not be connected. I prefer small circles. 

With my need to respect the autonomy of myself and other relationships, it is interesting the differences I’ve connected with—there are differing values across the board, which may or may not work out long-term—of that I am aware and accepting of. My style differs to each of my paramours (apart from one who shares a strikingly similar mindset and approach), with those that differ—one is open but of a romantically monogamous mind (for me, I’m very aware that at some point they could decide being with a pansexual polyamorous person is not within their capacity, and that monogamy or being with others who work with hierarchical values may be their natural default). And another is hierarchical with the primary relationship holding (the often controversial) veto power over others (again, I’m aware that’s another axe hanging over my head). With both of those differing items, I guess there’s a certain uncertainty—does that make sense to you? What I’m trying to say, is that there’s a comfort in knowing what it’ll be if one of those axes falls, and in either case it’s outside of my control—it’s  ‘not me’, and most definitely a them thing. Though we could argue getting involved in the first place was in part well within mine—they are things I’ve chosen to accept as I’ve gotten more emotionally involved. What I’m trying to get across is that in romantic relationships, just as it is holding space for multiple meaningful friendships, we can have differing approaches and values, but in those connections, we carve out our own design that can be profoundly fulfilling. 

I may pop back in, since this became more singularly focused than I first thought it would. And my waffling isn’t entirely finished but I have other things pulling my attention now.

Later!

Until the Last Breath

Another Annoyingly Introspective Personal Post

I was never soothed or comforted – born into a ‘let her cry it out’ parenting style, with the technique of — if a child is that upset, threaten to give them ‘something to really cry about!’. I know that it is not entirely untypical of the 80s and 90s. I can’t deny the impact, though; a significant part of my nature of dealing with everything myself to the point of extremely unhealthy hyper-independence was very much a result of the lack of nurture. I isolate. I squirrel my emotions away so no one else is inconvenienced by them. I process and work through little and big hells in solitude. And that hyper-independence has been taken advantage of in poor relationships.

I’ve never felt loved, only tolerated. And that has carried through all my relationships, including the romantic. I’ve never been loved – tolerated, settled for, or convenient, but never that. Even when those empty words were uttered, I knew that they loved what I did for them, how I made them feel. I was never the subject to be adorned with that robe. That word was never mine. Folks have given me the minimal and I’ve been grateful because I shouldn’t exist. Being born was a mistake, I should be grateful for the crumbs.

I know I’m worth more than how I was conditioned to believe. I know I’m not just an instrument for others. I know I’m more than tolerable.

Still, accepting the minimal is a hard piece of conditioning to break when it was so deeply embedded from the moment I let out my first cry. The world told me to be quiet. Be seen, never heard. And if one could avoid being seen, all the better. I’m trying to fix it. And I’m awful at creating massive swathes of room for the broken parts of others because I want them to feel all the acceptance and love that I’ve never had. And I’ve offered it in abundance to my own detriment. I never want anyone to feel as awful as I have – it’s dark in here, always cold. There’s work to be in done in this messy hollow. I’ll weave the spindly roots into knots, so you don’t fall into the dark when you walk over me. I’ll turn back clocks and drop all time to make someone I care about feel loved, heard, accepted. I struggle to give that time and space to myself.

Every day I’m trying. Changing. Attempting to remake so many broken pieces or accept them with that word. The one that wasn’t mine when it fell from liars’ lips.

I think prioritising being loyal to myself is becoming one of the hardest lessons to learn in this lifetime. The perpetual work in progress until the last gargled breath. Still, the geese. At least none of this is forever….

Hyper compartmentalising or hyper exposure?

I began writing about this some months back. It came to the forefront of my mind again recently, but from a personal angle, so I’m going to blend my tangent tangle; why the hell not? An attempt to de-compartmentalise the thoughts. Oh, the anarchy! My mind will not enjoy this. It’s a tangent—potentially incoherent at times. Just go with me on it.

Psychologically speaking, compartmentalising is a defence mechanism—an isolating process within the mind of thoughts and feelings that may conflict–this can have benefits, of course. It can help us focus on a task without being distracted. Given the nature of defence, I wonder if it’s beneficial that we are raised to compartmentalise how we are educated. As a home-educating parent, I’ve often considered this. In nature, for most, applying this to every aspect of life is stressful and unfulfilling and can make us appear inauthentic. I often worry about what parts to share, with whom and when. We naturally show different parts of ourselves to different audiences to suit boundaries and comfort levels. There’s a difference between natural compartmentalisation that protects us and the hyper compartmentalisation that seems so prevalent today. Have we all gone a little too far?

I think of the neurodivergent kid who masks all day while in a childcare or school environment and then has a meltdown at home, or the smiling and helpful cashier who spends his day helping and being patient with trying and rude customers but returns home exhausted, moody, and craving solitude from the hustle and bustle. 

In business, there’s little expectation for the heads of large organisations to share extracts of their personal selves and private lives with their customer base. I’ve never heard anyone ponder how interactive and personable James Daunt (Managing Director of Waterstones) or Roger White (CEO of AG Barr) are with his customers, for example. Few customers consider how these guys ‘made them feel’ or how personally engaged they are on social media before buying books from Waterstones or picking up a bottle of Irn Bru. It’s predominantly about the products and not the folks behind them. This doesn’t apply to independent businesses such as authors and artists like myself, who maintain complete creative and distribution control of their work. Yet, as an independent, I read and hear about this often. How folks must ‘buy in’ to the artist, and we must tirelessly engage—not too much or too little, just the right (arbitrary) amount to be ‘seen’ and be personable. In the online compartment, I’ve seen folks complain that authors only post about their work and their books, then, on the flip side, they share too much of their personal lives. There’s no pleasing everyone, even for people-pleasers, an epidemic primarily associated with women. Sadly, it is a piece of conditioning I am struggling to break free of, though I am trying! Even if not for myself, as an example to my younglings.

Again, this compartmentalisation, at its root, is a defensive process. One that can help separate and protect business from personal and facts from fiction. 

Personal compartmentalisation, on the other hand, isn’t as clear-cut either. In fact, for some of us, that’s even more of murky situation. When is it too much? When is it not enough? It’s now undeniable to me the more I’ve considered it that how I manage my personal relationships in this manner is a defensive and trauma response. I was raised to hide pieces of myself, from how I smiled to the questions I’d ask, so like the people pleaser, the hyper compartmentaliser was also created. Don’t let them see you, Natasha. Don’t let anyone see all of you because you’re a fucking mess. Your teeth are crooked, your accent isn’t right, your questions make everyone uncomfortable. Just stay quiet, and keep your mouth closed. But that’s not unique to me; I’m not special in any way, so many of us have this — our friends, family, co-workers, and acquaintances only see us from certain angles. A version just for you and them. And with this, I’ve always kept my social relationships pretty separate. I don’t mix family and friends or different friend groups. The idea of such social mixing sends me into an anxiety-ridden shambles envisioning the horror. There’s experience to support the separations—I mixed groups a bit in my youth, and lessons were learned, so the defences were erected in full force, and I haven’t thought about allowing passages between rooms in a couple of decades.

In recent months, I began considering my history with social compartmentalism when one of my closest friends noted I had uncharacteristically opened a door between rooms. She has perhaps been exposed to more of me than anyone else in my life, so her observation hit hard. In creating this invitation, which was uncharacteristically not thought out, it was strangely natural in contrast to my defensive conditioning. I’m here today overthinking or just thinking about how I may have created a draft. Shut the door, Natasha! The open door, even if the invited never passes through, is akin to an open wound. Have I thoughtlessly regressed or is it a progressive change of self? A seasonal shift that has to happen for a growth I’m yet to understand? I don’t know. It’s getting cold in here. Maybe I should close the door.

Broken Home

This term was mentioned to me when my kids’ father and I split up. I knew it would come up but I’ve considered it a lot since. Honestly, I considered it many times before that. Here are my thoughts:

‘Broken Home’ when used as a label towards kids that don’t grow up with birth parents who are in a relationship or married to one another is mostly bullshit. I’ve experienced and know of many far more broken homes where the parents remain unhappily together. They stay together with sticky notes of excuses, ‘for the kids’, ‘for the vows of better and worse’, to ‘prove a point’, to not ‘disappoint family’, because they’ve become unhealthily co-dependent. They stay together for fear of loneliness, judgment, the unknown, financial reasons, practical excuses, and lies they tell themselves that it ‘might get better’ and ‘things will change’. They trap themselves and their kids into true broken homes. Even though I knew better, I did that too for a time. Kids see that. They feel it, even if they don’t say it to their parents, though, sometimes they do. And when they do, it hurts hard.

My kids are not of a broken home—we fixed that when we chose to raise them in two happy homes instead of one unhappy one.

Break those toxic fucking cycles and fuck those ignorant labels.

I am the Cycle Breaker

I’m the cycle breaker. The black sheep. The problematic relative who doesn’t endure bullshit because of a stupid thing like ‘blood’. I’ve often spoken up against wrongs and followed through in my actions.

When I was seven, I rejected eating animals. It was also around that time that I rejected the religion forced upon me, too. The hypocrisy was too loud for me to bear. How we are taught of love while we feed our bodies and those of our children with violence and murder?

Natasha’s just over-sensitive or impressionable—she saw a vegetarian once on TV; it’s a phase. My family would contaminate my food and lie about it. I’ve been cooking my own meals, for the most part, since I was eight. I was bullied, and instead of being supported, I was made to feel weak and as if I brought it on myself. I was the problem. I needed to harden up. Fight. I wasn’t rough enough, loud enough, or anything enough for my mother, and she let it show. As a teen, when I told her about a girl I liked, she flipped. Said all sorts of horrible things, and if my sister “ends up queer, it’s your fault!” Hell knows where that came from and why any form of queerness was considered a fault. But it was. I could have died. I wanted to die. I daydreamed about it a lot. There was even a sit-down talk with my mother and father, “it’s not Eve and Eve,” my dad said through gritted teeth at the kitchen table, adding insult to injury by throwing that drivel at their pagan practising daughter. I couldn’t open my mouth without being the family’s disappointment. Even when I kept it shut, I was wrong. Being a teen in their house—never my home—was hell. I had to leave school sooner than I wanted so I could work more hours, save and get the hell out of there. I made other excuses so no one’s feelings were hurt and they didn’t feel at fault. The house was increasingly volatile, and I couldn’t handle the hate and disappointment that emanated towards me every single day. I didn’t feel love. I never felt safe. I couldn’t be me.

When I sought help (after moving out), alone, for depression and being suicidal, telling them felt like coming out. I was attacked again. I should have known, right? I didn’t blame my parents for my mental ill health then. And yet, opening up and seeking support threw my mother into a rage, “You can’t blame me! You can’t blame us! There was nothing wrong with your childhood. You have no idea what I had to grow up with!” (I’m keeping the examples mild. Filtered. Even now, I’m protective). I felt like an idiot. Why did I keep trying to have a relationship with these people? Why, when I was consistently attacked, did I keep giving them fuel to burn me with?

I split up with my boyfriend, and instantly became a slut—because if you have sex with more than one person, you’re a slut, especially a woman. If a relationship fails that’s what a woman is. A failure, and a slut. Better to be with one person and condemned to an unhappy marriage than be, well, anything like me. My parents were occasionally supportive, but it was always finite and always used against me at some point—guaranteed.

My baby died in my belly. They were great, at first. Supportive the way you’d expect. Like everything, though, my grieving had a clock. not mine—someone else’s. Park it. Draw a line. Suck it up. Someone else is pregnant and I had to get over it. When they found out I had experienced loss before, I was attacked for not telling them, you know, for support.

Many folks talk a good game about breaking cycles and respecting and creating boundaries, especially when raising children. That has to be modelled. It took me a long, long time of enduring emotional abuse, banging my head against a brick wall in trying to communicate with people who didn’t want to hear me, let alone see me. I walked on eggshells for thirty years. My depression was my fault. I was a pervert. A slut. Too sensitive. Never ever good enough.

I will always be my parents’ failure.

It’s been ten years since I finally drew the line to break the cycle and stand up for myself. Life is too short. I’ve learnt my lesson, and it was damn hard. I am the cycle breaker—for me and my children.

Birthday

I hate my birthday. I’ve never understood the point. For as long as I can remember, I’ve never enjoyed it. Ill mental health plays a part—yes, even as a very young child. Perhaps growing up with little and seeing how overstretched gift-givers could become and materialistic and spoiled behaviour from receivers and givers alike added to this discomfort with such anniversaries. I’ve never really desired ‘things’.

As a child, I felt like a burden. They were so young, and my grandfather’s death fast followed my birth. And I feel for that. ‘One in and one out’ is what they say, and something unwanted took the place of my mother’s father. Me. To celebrate my birthday? An obligation instead of a celebration is what I felt. So, I’ve never liked my birthday.

I’m a mother. And birth merits celebration. Life merits gratitude. Existence is miraculous. The coming together and multiplying of cells to form new life? It’s astounding. Wanted or not. Accidental or with the desired purpose.

Without mine, my children would not exist. I acknowledge my birth for them. Life is the gift.

Anyway, this year, I hung out with Paul and the smalls in a park, reading quietly and feeding crackers to crows while the kids played. And we enjoyed ice cream and The Little Mermaid together—a magical summer release.

Appreciate the little moments. They are the big things. That’s what makes up this chaotic life. The seemingly small is where the magick resides.

Cheers to surviving another day. )O(

The month of Samhain 2022

Witches’ New Year approaches. With that, I’m Autumn cleaning, creatively speaking, at least. Washing away the dust of the summer fires, sweeping this germ-ridden circle clogged with ash. I say this with every positive intention, which in the current climate of my sick house, it’s not so simple. Some things are outwith control, but I try flow with, around, through it. (I may have recited ‘We’re Going on a Bear Hunt’ a few too many times).
Starting with the writing. I’ve taken part in only a few invite-only opportunities. This year, it has been difficult to say no, but something I’ve had to learn to do fast. It’s been challenging; each opportunity offered has been for a great project, and I am profoundly grateful to be asked. Short fiction writing has been on the back burner, which was always this year’s plan to invest in my degree studies and researching/writing longer works. Moving on, a quick recap of my own books released and scheduled to tie up 2023:

Asylum Daughter
Novella
5th May 2022

Incesticide: Collected Horror
Short Fiction Collection
14th December 2022

Clan Witch: Found Shadows
Poetry and Drabble Collection
31st December 2022

There has been lots of work going on in Brazen Folk Horror, which I launched with Ruthann Jagge this year. Here we share regular updates on ‘The Making of Delevan House’. We have many plans to execute, so it’s a great space to follow. You are cordially invited! We expect you to put in some effort—get tight-lacing, break out the good cloak, your best finery, and you better buy an extravagant hat while you’re at it. It’ll be one hell of a ride! You will want to be watching for that pre-order date as soon as we announce it. In the meantime, come enjoy the brazen tease and seduction.

Well, it’s been tumultuous and stable on the homestead with no middle ground— a seesaw over starving shark-infested waters more than a rollercoaster. The pendulum never stops. My kids and I have been struggling with fresh ongoing health issues since the start of the year when we contracted that virus. It then came in for a second hit in July, which haven’t recovered from. Between chronic coughs requiring prescription medications, chronic fatigue and opportunistic germs that keep jumping on board because of compromised immune systems, it’s been a royal shitshow. With medical support services (the NHS) being abysmal. My family (I) also suffered another pregnancy loss. During the second bout of that virus, my baby’s heart stopped beating, and I gave birth four weeks later. We were (are) devastated.

Grief so intimate is a profound journey we carry with us throughout our time on the rock. Lives that were given a second chance coincided with the loss of my last baby, Averey. My family adopted a small flock of ex-commercial layers (Hens) from The British Hen Welfare Trust. I have shared little updates on their settling-in and shenanigans on social media. The ladies (our little Queens, as we call them. On account of naming them after Drag Queens: Jinkx Monsoon, Bimini bon boulash, Raja and Ginger Minj) are so very full of stories and have settled in as though they’ve always been part of the family. They are part of the clan. Some things are meant to be, and these Queens were never meant for slaughter.

Something about coming from 2021 into 2022 held promise and a thirst for change. More than a thirst, it was a drouth of dry agony. So many I know felt it—a need for rewiring, redirection, reinvention, or simply getting back on track. The year hasn’t quite lived up to the promise. Instead, it’s been more like treading water. Trying to stay afloat, and more, fighting to survive. I guess that’s life for the most part. An ongoing battle, with Jack-in-the-box obstacles springing forth at any given moment. Damn clowns. Tomorrow will be better.

The veil is thinning as the gears continue to cycle. There’s much reflection as we dare to lift the veil and step through the shadows, opening locked doors to visit with ghosts. This season welcomes the shadows, where the light and dark dance. It’s almost Samhain. Listen… whose voice can you hear calling from the ether?

Sweep the circle, burn the candles, lay out the feast, and set out coveted photographs and letters from the dead. They’ll be here soon. )O(

Clan Witch: Found Shadows

I’m sweeping the circle. The bones and remnants of word fusions are being expelled to make way for new spells. This collection is set for release in Hogmanay 2022. The preorder is live now.

Digital ARCs will be available well in advance of release, if you are a reviewer who’d love a first look at Clan Witch: Found Shadows, my mailbox is open for enquiries to be added to my priority early reader list.

Clan Witch: Found Shadows, releasing December 31st 2022

Synopsis (subject to tweaking)

Do readers buy poetry from undead poets?

There’s nothing quite like picking the prose and verses of the dead like vultures. There’s freedom in that unpicking, with no one alive to contest, at least not the mind which birthed them.

Sinclair consumes written and spoken as she does in its lyrical form, dressed in music and paint. Dancing to the beat or screaming into the voids of despair. Here, Sinclair presents Clan Witch: Found Shadows, no music, no paint, just words. A mix-tape of drabbles and anarchic free verse poetry..

The writer still lives. Perhaps you’ll read her unruly verse before the witch is dead.

Cover image from Christy Aldridge of Grim Poppy Designs

Mid Year Update

Talk about curveball 2022! Another year of madness! There were plans. Big beautiful plans! And while those plans still exist, there has been movement because of those unexpected transitions life has her way of throwing. Personally, I’ve had some family upsets which I predominantly have to deal with and process alone (my partner, of course, has supported as much as one can). I’ve angered, been frustrated, hurt, grieved, run myself in circles, hurt some more, and accepted. Because sometimes that’s all we can do. Accept to find crumbs of peace and carry on. It just takes a little time. It’s a process many are familiar with. It’s been heavy.

Following the acceptances of a triple-pronged hit, I’ve another unexpected ‘bump’, who made himself known in a dream. My kids are excited about another sibling to teach and get up to extra mischief with. Since I have complicated pregnancies, and this one has already given us some wobbles, I’m (again) doing everything within my control to keep this little one inside until late 2022, ideally early 2023. My cervix needs a mantra, and this is the last! The instant physical hit means I’ve been heavily fatigued, and as of that wasn’t enough, I’ve been hammered with mine and the kids’ second bout of Covid of 2022. Because I wasn’t wiped enough by the heavy graft underway in my uterus, I am zapped because my lungs are in battle, and my body feels like it’s been used as a punchbag.

Moving in from all of that, onto the writing front update:

My novella, Asylum Daughter, released on 8th May 2022.

Redesigned the cover art for Murmur: Collected Horror.

Launched Clan Witch Etsy store for book related merchandise and signed copies.

My short story collection Incesticide: Collected Horror is available for preorder, releasing on 14th December 2022.

My sassy, immensely talented, and inspiring co-author, Ruthann Jagge and I launched our website, BrazenFolkHorror.com, for our upcoming 2022 release, Delevan House and future projects. Ruthann also released her fantastic solo debut novella in January 2022, The New Girls’ Patient; if you haven’t read her, this is an excellent example of her extraordinary work that should be on any horror fan’s reading list.

I’ve still been editing work for other writers and publishers via Word Refinery and also published poet Rafik Romdhani’s collection, The Crash of Verses.

I am working on my degree course too.

The latest developments has zapped my study schedule. I hope to recover enough to make up for that soon. Deadlines are looming! Anthology wise, unlike in the previous two years, I have not responded to any open calls. My dance card has been packed. I have gratefully received several invite opportunities but unfortunately had to decline several. One that I was able to submit a piece to was with KJK Publishing’s The Horror Collection: Nightmare Edition, which has just been released. It’s the biggest collection of the twelve-book series and worth picking up for a good flavour of many popular independent horror authors currently putting our new materiel.

More still to come for 2022, and 2023 is also beginning to fill up with a couple of accepted invites, continued work with my brazen co-author in crime and at least one (hopefully two) solo release(s). One of which will be a collection of poetry and drabbles, Clan Witch: Found Shadows.

Woodworm

I visualise the tiny holes
Secretly infesting,
Weakening bones
Like woodworm.
I’m on one of their backs;
A voyeur
In inner space.
Woodworm cancer
Speckling the
Skeleton,
Spreading spots
Eroding this life’s vessel.
He says he’s fine
When he late
Returns,
Reluctant—
Like a child
Pushed towards
Their failure,
Their mistake, 
Disgrace.
He says he’s fine
When he lies to me—
Face blue,
Faceless
Digital alphabets
Thrown together,
A string
For a stranger—
Loveless.
I keep making
Peace with the
Distance;
Goldfish swimming 
In circles.
The no return
Excuses,
The rot in 
My soul,
The hole
He created
With another falsity!
It’s ok.
I’ve made peace—
I lie to myself too.
The damnation
Of Genetics.