Tag: fiction

  • 87 Octane, a Pull Cord, and Chlorophyll

    Mowing the lawn. When I do it routinely — in season — it’s therapeutic. And yes, at my age, the body pays for it with soreness for a couple of days afterward. I can already hear my wife: “Why do you like it so much? Why not just hire someone?” Good question. I don’t have…

  • Two Circles, Different Paths… and Me Here with My Coffee

    Snack time.Blood sugar dipping.Logic fading.Philosophy rising. I’m standing in the kitchen, cabinet door open, staring into the abyss like it owes me answers. And all I can think about… is donuts. Because donuts are one of those rare foods that feel almost diplomatic. They don’t argue. They don’t divide. They show up in a pink…

  • Somewhere Between

    There is a quiet moment each night that almost no one talks about. You lie in bed. The room is dark, except for the faint glow sneaking in around the curtains. The ceiling fan hums its familiar rhythm. Your eyes are barely a slit — not open, not closed — just enough to blur the…

  • Got a Minute?

    Conversations can be a source of great entertainment.And sometimes great discomfort. I’ve had the dubious distinction of experiencing both — sometimes in the same day, often back to back, and once — memorably — in the very same conversation. That part still fascinates me. How can something begin as amusement, drift into awkwardness, and somehow…

  • On Writing, Remembering, and Talking Too Long

    There’s a particular kind of conversation that only seems to happen after you’ve written a book. Not during interviews. Not in those polite, well-lit moments where someone asks, “So what’s it about?” and you give the version you’ve rehearsed in the mirror. I’m talking about the real conversations—the ones that happen over sips of coffee…

  • A Writers’ Room with No Showrunner and Infinite Coffee

    I sometimes wonder if our dreams are just a carbon-based, innate AI running a late-night Netflix marathon in our skulls. Think about it: all day long, your brain collects data—faces, fears, half-heard conversations, that embarrassing thing you did in seventh grade—and then, at night, it’s like, “Great. Let’s remix all this into a cinematic experience.”…

  • Longing…

    Longing for human touch begins as a subtle stir beneath the skin, a tremor of sensation that no words can fully name. It is in the brush of your own fingertips along your arms, in the ghost of a hand that might have held yours, in the quiet ache that rises where warmth is missing.…

  • On Being 55

    Ah, 55. A milestone just for being a milestone.Double nickels. What used to be the speed limit on most major freeways—which tells you exactly how long it’s been since anyone cared what the speed limit was. Fifty-five is the age where the world quietly, officially reclassifies you. You’re now a senior citizen—not because you feel…

  • That Guy In The Mirror.

    The inner voice.The alter ego. Sometimes the lone voice of reason.Often the reason we do stupid shit. He’s the first person you ever open up to—long before you open up to anyone else.The rehearsal audience.The test kitchen. You admit things to him you haven’t even learned how to say out loud yet.You bounce ideas off…

  • Before the Day Notices Me

    I’ve written about the morning quiet a few times, and usually that quiet is accompanied by coffee. And so here I am, writing about that morning quiet while enjoying said quiet…and coffee. There’s a particular kind of peace that comes from alone time and coffee just for coffee’s sake. Not a meeting. Not a reward.…

  • Not quite famous. And still mostly unknown.

    So yeah—I wrote a book. If you’ve been following me, you’ve heard this a few times already; this’ll be one more. (Don’t blame me. That guy in the mirror made me do it.) The book went live a little over two months ago. And yes, it’s sold a bunch of copies. Not bestseller-list, airport-bookstore, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it…

  • Caffeinated, Distracted, and Somehow Not Famous

    I was pondering the life of an influencer over the holiday break—because why think about taxes, family, or existential dread when you can overanalyze people yelling at a tiny lens? And it hit me: these people, these camera-talking wizards, have an insane cocktail of confidence, courage, and apparently a complete disregard for the crushing humiliation…

  • Not Typical, But It Works

    I was asked recently about my experience writing a book. It was one of those casual questions that slowly opens a door you didn’t expect. As the conversation unfolded, it inevitably turned to students—specifically, what it takes to get kids to write. That question lingered with me longer than I expected, probably because it pulled…

  • Shelved Dreams

    Shelved Dreams

    Writing a book was a long-held dream of mine—one I carried quietly for years. Not the kind of dream I announced out loud or chased with urgency, but one that lived in the background, tucked away between lesson plans, staff meetings, and stacks of papers waiting to be graded. It was always there, patient and…

  • On Being a Writer (Ay, Sí… Mira Qué Chingón)

    As a writer—ay, sí, mira qué chingón—I’ve discovered something both humbling and infuriating: I find myself completely at a loss for words far more often than I care to admit. It’s not for lack of ideas. Oh no. I have tons of ideas. I keep notes. I keep too many notes. I’m like a hoarder…