Unquiet
Things

When I was about fifteen, I fell in love with a kiwi-scented lip balm from the Body Shop. It came in a cute little pot, a gloopy treasure trove of bright green goodness. I was completely smitten. I remember telling my sister, “If they ever interview me and ask what product I’d recommend, this would be the first one!” Looking back, I realize I had no idea who “they” were, but… I think it’s the same mysterious “them” that I write these blog posts for now.

As a teenager, I wrote in my diary with the subtle awareness that someone might read it someday. Maybe it wasn’t written explicitly for an audience, but there was always that thought, a quiet, pervasive tickle in the back of my mind. And so maybe events were exaggerated, embellished. Real-life with a flourish, little semi-fictions, Without realizing it, I was planting seeds for something that would bloom years later.

When I discovered blogging, it felt like I’d found a hidden door in my own house, one that opened onto a weird little garden where those earlier plantings were waiting for me. All those years of scribbling in private had unknowingly set the stage for this new kind of writing. New, but it already felt so familiar! Blogging gave me a chance to share my thoughts with real people, to start conversations, and to connect with others who shared my peculiar blend of interests. It was exhilarating to think that my words could leap beyond the confines of my diary and potentially touch someone else’s life.

Each blog post became a bottle cast into the digital sea, carrying a piece of my inner world to shores unknown. But now, instead of just daydreaming about being interviewed, I was actually putting my thoughts out there for people to read. It was both thrilling and a little unnerving, like stepping onto a stage I’d been preparing for without realizing it.

This summer, I spent much more time writing for this blog than I typically do over the span of 30 days. I was avoiding social media the month of July, so every time I got the itchy urge to start scrolling through Instagram, I’d come here instead and draft a bunch of ideas. A lot of them were terrifically, soul-searchingly self-absorbed because, as you can imagine, I was in my own head and up my own ass quite a bit while I was trying to find things to do with myself. And apparently, the place in between the brains and the butthole is where I ended up: the navel. And there was a lot of gazing.

That’s how I came to be rewriting my “About” page, and this, too, was a peculiar exercise in introspection. As I wrestled with words to encapsulate the essence of Unquiet Things, a question bubbled up from the depths of my psyche like a particularly persistent specter’s fart: for whom exactly (other than myself) am I writing for?

It struck me as ironically familiar. In my journey as a writer, I’ve often found myself on the other side of this question. When interviewing artists and other creators, I frequently ask them, “Who are your creations for?” It’s funny how life unfolds – I once dreamed of being the subject of interviews, but I grew up to be the one asking the questions.

Now, I found myself putting that same question to myself. Who is my audience? Who are these posts for? It was an attempt to define that ill-defined “them,” to put faces on the nebulous, shifting idea of an audience that had been with me since those lip balm daydreams. I wanted to understand who, beyond myself, was reading these posts and exploring this cabinet of curiosities with me.

In this post, I am shining a light on this question and taking a stab at pinning down some answers.  I’ve identified five main types of readers who seem to frequent these digital halls. Each group brings its own interests and perspectives, collectively creating the “Them” I’ve been looking to connect with my entire life.

The Curious Explorers and Enthusiastic Amateur Investigators

These are the readers who love to uncover hidden knowledge and explore the lesser-known corners of history and culture. They’re drawn to obscure facts, forgotten stories, and the mysteries that linger in old places. Every post about an arcane subject or a little-known historical figure is a treasure map for these curious souls.  You’re the ones reading the Mary Roach books,  the Atlas Obscura & Public Domain Review websites; you may have a subscription to the Fortean times, and I bet you have been to The Museum of Jurassic Technology more than once.

The Aesthetic Appreciators

These readers find beauty in unexpected places. They’re drawn to the elegance of vintage objects, the artistry in melancholy, the allure of the slightly unconventional. They appreciate the visual aspects of the blog – the carefully chosen images, the descriptions of unique fashion or decor or fragrance. For them, beauty often lies in the details and the stories behind them. You no doubt have a piece of Victorian hairwork in your collection, own several copies of The Picture of Dorian Gray, you have curated a collection of vintage slips, and have a list of pleasing (or hateful) things a la Sei Shonagun.

The Reflective Souls

These are the readers who appreciate moments of quiet introspection. They’re drawn to posts that ponder life’s big questions, explore emotional landscapes, or offer a different perspective on familiar experiences. They find comfort or resonance in the more personal, vulnerable aspects of the writing here. I bet you have read Joan Didion’s The Year Of Magical Thinking or  Paulo Coelho’s The Alchemist (not saying you had to enjoy it–I didn’t care for either one– but they’ve been checked off your list.) You may have attended a Death Cafe, you probably have a list of favorite Ingmar Bergman film’s ranked. You definitely keep a dream journal or a gratitude journal or a commonplace book. It seems colorfully, boisterously counterintuitive, but I bet you enjoyed Steven Universe and think about it quite frequently. For all your musings on mortality and meditations on melancholy, I think you are also in love with the idea of “demented glee” and “unhinged joy.”

The Horror Aficionados and Fantastical Dreamers

These are the thrill-seekers of the psyche, the connoisseurs of the uncanny who find exquisite pleasure in the chill of fear crawling up their spine. They devour tales of terror with voracious appetites, from cosmic horrors that unravel sanity to the quiet dread that lurks in everyday shadows. Yet, their palates are equally attuned to the fantastical where nightmares and dreams intertwine. Whether it’s book or film reviews of gothic fiction, dark fairy tales, horror stories, or explorations of the uncanny in everyday life, these readers are here for the stories that blur the lines between reality and imagination. You no doubt know one person who plays the theremin and have tried to listen to Diamanda Galás, though it’s 50/50 as to whether that’s your thing or not. You keep trying. You have a favorite Suspiria (“both” are an acceptable answer.) The Time Life Enchanted World Ghosts book was a formative tome for you. You swear you’re never again going to visit the /nosleep subreddit when you’re home alone, but you keep doing it anyway. Stephen King and/or George Romero may be surrogate fathers for you, and you have read the book club edition Dracula/Frankenstein omnibus with the Frank Frazetta cover art at least 50 times.

The Gentle Spirits and Solitude Seekers

These readers find joy in solitude and simple pleasures while also nurturing an appreciation for the slightly offbeat. They might be the quiet crafters, the thoughtful gardeners, the solo wanderers. They’re drawn to posts that celebrate small moments of beauty or tranquility, especially when those moments have a touch of the unusual or unexpected. You own at least one Mary Oliver collection. You knit/crochet/cross-stitch/needlepoint.  You’ve named your sourdough starter and are obsessed with pickling and fermenting. You were probably obsessed with Tasha Tudor at one point, and Frog & Toad feel like old friends. And oh my god, the Beatrix Potter ballet! You’re definitely in the Haunted Cottagecore Facebook group, and you wish it didn’t take the admins three weeks to approve your very relevant artwork post when it seems like the stupid meme posts get approved right away. Over the Garden Wall is a year-round staple. You know the words to “Potatoes & Molasses” by heart.

As I reflect on these different groups of readers, I’m struck by how they overlap and intertwine. And really, how they are all pieces of my very own heart and soul. Each category represents a facet of my own interests, a reflection of the various corners of my mind where curiosity, aesthetics, introspection, imagination, and gentleness reside. In a way, by writing for you, I’m also writing for all the different versions of myself – past, present, and perhaps even future. Many of you probably see yourselves in more than one category or perhaps in none of them exactly. That’s the beauty of this community – it’s as diverse and multifaceted as the topics we explore here.

This blog has become a meeting place for all these varied interests and perspectives. It’s a space where we can indulge our curiosity, appreciate unconventional beauty, reflect on life’s complexities, explore imaginative realms, and find moments of quiet connection. Blogging, for me, is a way to reach out to this wonderfully diverse “them” I once only imagined. It’s a chance to share ideas, to learn from others, to make sense of the world together. Every post is an invitation to explore, to reflect, to connect.

So why do I blog? I blog because it’s the realization of that teenage dream, the manifestation of that imaginary “them” I’ve carried with me since my kiwi lip balm days. I blog because it allows me to be both the interviewer and the interviewed, to ask questions and offer answers, to seek and to share. I blog because in this digital garden, I’ve found a place where my peculiar blend of interests can flourish alongside yours.

In the end, “them” turned out to be you – the curious explorers, the aesthetic appreciators, the reflective souls, the horror aficionados, the gentle spirits. You’re the ones who read about Victorian hairwork and then go make a sourdough starter named after a gothic heroine. You’re the ones who can quote Mary Oliver and Stephen King in the same breath. You’re the ones who find beauty in melancholy and joy in the uncanny.

Every comment, every shared experience, every “me too!” moment in the blog is a reminder that the “them” I once imagined has become real. It’s you, reading these words right now. You’re the community I never knew I needed, the audience I always hoped for.

I’ll be the first to admit that this whole exercise has been tremendously self-involved. But you know what? It’s also been tremendously fun. It’s given me a chance to reflect on why I do what I do, to appreciate the community we’ve built here, and to dream up new ideas for future posts. After all, now that I’ve imagined you all so vividly, how can I not want to create more content that speaks to every facet of this wonderfully eclectic audience?

So hooray to you, to us, to this weird and wonderful “them” we’ve created together. We figured it out, together! Thank you for being here, for exploring this cabinet of curiosities with me, for making Unquiet Things more than just a collection of posts. It’s a conversation, a connection, a community of kindred spirits – or rather, kindred glooms! Together, we’ve created a space where our unquiet thoughts can roam freely, where our shared fascinations with the beautiful, the melancholic, and the mysterious can flourish.

Huzzah, weirdos! You’re my favorite Them in the gloopy green lip balm of life. And thanks for letting me tell you all about it.

If you enjoy posts like these or if you have ever enjoyed or been inspired by something I have written, and you would like to support this blog, consider buying the author a coffee?

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Pieces Of My Heart from Filigree & Shadow is a fragrance that asks, “Speak, what brings you to me?” And in its presence, we cannot help but be laid bare. This scent brooks no pretense; it deftly dismantles our carefully constructed facades, leaving us vulnerably authentic and, paradoxically, empowered. A sacred space where honesty becomes ordained and inevitable. It opens with a whisper of sweetness – not quite citrus, but rather the essence of some rare citrine blossom, distilled and crystallized. Flecks of golden light seem to float within this initial accord, a luminous beginning, a beacon, guiding irresistibly, inexorably toward self-revelation. As it unfolds, a velvety incense emerges, not heavy or overwhelming, but as steadfast and reassuring as a hand held in the dark. There’s a smooth quality that defies easy categorization – a silken, buttery, almost unctuous texture that speaks of softness and solace. This textural element persists, both olfactory and emotional, as if the scent itself could heal. The gentle resins and this satiny accord intertwine in an aroma at once ethereal and grounding, conjuring a feeling of ineffable comfort, the essence of a prayer exhaled into cupped palms, gently smoothed over troubled skin and spirit. It evokes a sense of resolute serenity – the essence of that still, small voice affirming, “I am not afraid. I was born for this.” Wearing this fragrance feels like standing at the threshold of revelation, where all the raw, messy horrors of being human finally crystallize into a single, breathtaking moment of grace, a benediction of tender acceptance of our whole flawed, stupid selves. Pieces Of My Heart is an olfactory sacrament that whispers a terrifying truth: we, in all our awful humanness, our flaws and frailties, our fears and faltering steps, are okay. We are enough. This revelation is at once frightening and profoundly liberating. With each inhalation, we are confronted with our own worthiness – a concept so vast and beautiful it threatens to undo us.

Treading Water’s The Observer is a scent that lingers at the threshold of something undefined, evoking the curious sensation of having one foot out the door. Upon first encounter, a clean, green leaf note emerges crisp and bright, soon followed by a dry, woody sharpness. Weaving through these more familiar elements is an unexpected rubbery undertone, an oddly compelling accent that keeps drawing me back for another sniff. There’s an elusive quality to the scent that I struggle to pinpoint – it hovers somewhere between “new car smell” and “unused room.” Not quite sterile, but rather a bit stale and unlived-in, like a well-maintained but uninhabited house. It’s as if a caretaker visits occasionally, but the absence of human presence is palpable in the air. This strange emptiness persists as the fragrance develops on my skin, leaving me to ponder what lies beyond that metaphorical door, and whether I’m prepared to step through it.

Amouage Lilac Love When one thinks of lilac fragrances, the words “delicate” and “demure” often come to mind. Amouage Lilac Love, however, is…not that. This scent is a fragrant homage to larger-than-life, flamboyant femininity and old-school glamour, conjuring the essence of bosomy madam Miss Mona swanning around in her feather boas and silk peignoirs in The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas. I have heard this described as a floral gourmand, which seems accurate, but I can’t pinpoint exactly how. There’s an abstract richness and creaminess that evokes an elusive decadence, and the floral element feels somewhat speculative as well. Not a lush bouquet of actual fresh cut blooms, but the lavish ideal of them swirled into a velvet wallpaper design in a dim-lit boudoir. A plush, powdery musk settles on the skin, a rope of pearls pooled across a soft expanse of warmed skin. Luxurious and heady, and combined with the honeyed floral sweetness, it’s a scent that seems to revel in its own sumptuousness. Lilac Love is A LOT. And every bit of it is gorgeous.

L’Artisan Histoire d’Orangers is the very gothest orange blossom. If you could distill all the words in every language for “melancholia,” capture the essence of a flick of heavy black eyeliner, or bottle the resonance of a sorrowful minor chord, that would sum up this perfume. It’s the poetry of abandoned orange groves at twilight, their spectral blossoms an incense of Saudade, Sehnsucht, of Mono no aware. For those moments when you long to wrap yourself in a tremulous sublimity of sadness, to revel in the exquisite pain of being achingly alive in a world that’s always slipping away. I’m aware this is the biggest, corniest cliche you’ve ever heard, but as a Florida goth awash in perpetual summertime glooms, I don’t know what else to tell you.

Aedes de Venustas Cierge de Lune is a vanilla bean moonbeam threading its way through a labyrinth of mirrors. Silken jasmine vines unravel from the moon’s negligee, weaving themselves into a veil that drapes across sleeping cities. A silvered net catching soft, pale fragments of dreams – a half-remembered kiss, the touch of cool desert air, the rustle of invisible wings. A drop of liquid light falls through layers of reality, a holy garland of tears and stardust-dappled night blooms. The slow stretch of time across a lunar landscape, captured in a sleepy smoked amber glass.

bloodmilk x Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab Bat Moth A chiaroscuro of earthy depth and hallucinatory sweetness, Bat Moth is the ecstatic fever dream intricacies of a Victorian fairy painter’s tiny fae revelers, filtered through Silky Bat’s sugar-spun patchouli charms. Or perhaps replace all the fairies in this frenzied vision with a wondrous delirium of bats: a warm-woody-fuzzy-fleecy chiropteran cloud of musk, beady black-jellied eyes, leathery-resinous flitterings in a dizzying expanse of sweetly dewy night air. For all the frenetic moonrise mania as the scent begins its evening’s flight, its midnight repose is a softly patchoulified haze, a velvet brown sugar nocturne, a drowsy incantation, a dissolving reverie.

blood milk x Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab Ultramarine, to my nose, is a wistful, romantic reverie of introspective painter Charles Burchfield’s mystical naturalism viewed through Beatrix Potter’s whimsical lens. A scent for gathering wild berries as twilight fog swirls underfoot, to be savored later with billowing clouds of softly sweetened, vanilla-scented cream. The faded cotton of ruffled floral aprons cradle dusky harvests, the tart sweetness tempered by evening’s cool breath. Mist-shrouded meadows drowse in the gloaming, where weathered fences stand sentinel to deepening indigo shadows. Nightbirds trill a tender lullaby as tendrils of aromatic steam curl through dampened air. Petals pearled with dew unfurl in the blue hour, their fragrance mingling with the earthy whisper of leaf litter and loam. A first-quarter moon’s reflection shivers in a porcelain cup, its slanted light filtering through lace-curtained windows to illuminate lilac petals steeping in its wake.

In honor of the availability of Arcana’s Holy Terror in an EDP form, I thought I’d go back to my original, very half-assed review of the scent and expand upon it in the way that one of my top-ten forever fragrances deserves. This is a scent that unfolds like a waking dream, a fragrant tale that blurs the boundary between consciousness and slumber, where honeyed richness of beeswax candles intertwines with resinous incense. As it settles on the skin, the frankincense and myrrh meld with the mellow warmth of the beeswax, their individual notes blurring like secrets inked on damp parchment. There’s a golden amber vein comfort woven through the austere resins, reminiscent of candlelight flickering against ancient stone walls. The longer you wear it, the more Holy Terror becomes a sensory lullaby. It’s the olfactory equivalent of that drowsy state just before sleep claims you, when the words on the page of your gothic novel begin to swim and the tendrils of incense seem to form shapes in the air. The sandalwood provides a steady backdrop, like the spine of an old book, while the honeyed incense notes dance and swirl, becoming indistinguishable from one another. As you drift deeper into this scented reverie, you find yourself wandering the shadowy corridors of a crumbling castle, where portraits seem to breathe and suits of armor creak with unseen movement, and the amber-tinged air is suffused with ancient prophecy and long-buried secrets. In your mind’s eye, you observe yourself fleeing through moonlit cloisters, your feet bare and stumbling, leaving trails in the dust of centuries, the shadows descending upon you, unfolding you like a cloak. In the end, this fragrance doesn’t so much evoke fearsome abbey spirits as it does the gentle ghosts of stories half-remembered, of dreams that linger upon waking. It’s what you might smell if you fell asleep reading by candlelight and woke to find the smoke from the snuffed flame mingling with the last wisps of incense, all suffused with the ambery glow of beeswax

Stora Skuggan Azalai conjured forth SUCH a very specific image for me. Does anyone else remember Peaches & Cream Barbie from the 1980s? I don’t know if she had a specific scent, but Azalai is the fantasy aroma of that resplendent frothy pale coral gown she wore. Saffron-infused honey, champagne-candied apricots, and a golden halo of spun sugar amber clouds filtered to a honeyed, hazy glow through countless layers of delicate fabric, gossamer veils of tulle, and organza. Sheer and luminous, light and dreamy, this is everything little-me dreamed was so special about that doll. Even if I did eventually chop her hair off and marry her off to a small, plastic Lando Calrissian, only for her to disappear under mysterious circumstances on a skiing trip in the French Alps during their honeymoon.

Dammit, dammit, dammit. I really did not want to like Bianco Latte. Everyone seems to adore it, and I am the kind of annoying person who doesn’t want to like something that everyone else likes. But sometimes…everyone else might be on to something? Stop it! I hate that! Bianco Latte opens incredibly sweet, like a decadent caramel macchiato with extra vanilla syrup and plush, honey-infused cream. It’s so sweet it almost makes me mad, which almost makes me weepy, because I’m one of those people who cries instead of yells when they get mad. And it makes me think of super cute animals, how sometimes when we see a little fluffy furry cutie-patootie, we just burst into tears. Even though they’re adorable and charming, and they make us happy! And this, in turn, makes me think of that old 2006-era website, Cute Overload, and this one particular chubby, floofy bunny, whose fur was so white and its eyes were so big and innocent, and I just died every time I saw it. I think that’s the essence Bianco Latte is trying to capture – that overwhelming, almost painful sweetness that stirs up complex emotions. As the scent settles on your skin, it softens, much like how you’d calm down after that initial rush of seeing an impossibly adorable creature. As Bianco Latte dries down, the white musk emerges, creating an airy softness that mimics the imagined touch of that bunny’s impossibly fluffy fur. The vanilla becomes more rounded and marshmallow-squishy, reminiscent of how you’d want to cuddle that sweet little guy. The honey notes linger, reminding you of the golden glow of nostalgia for simpler internet days when a cute animal picture could be the highlight of your afternoon. It’s a scent that doesn’t just evoke memories, but feelings – that mix of joy, tenderness, and inexplicable sadness that comes from encountering something almost too precious for this world.

If you enjoy posts like these or if you have ever enjoyed or been inspired by something I have written, and you would like to support this blog, consider buying the author a coffee?

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Dusklight filters through ink-dark wings, casting otherworldly shadows on a sea of cornstalks below. A feline passenger, obsidian as midnight and unperturbed by its lofty perch, gazes intently ahead. Its makeshift carriage? A witch’s hat, upended and suspended by gossamer threads from a cloud of fluttering bats. The field below teems with tiny, watchful eyes—mice perhaps, or spirits of the harvest, bearing witness to this fantastical journey.

Welcome to the bewitching scenes of the twilight tableau, “Straight On Till Morning,” where we realize that some creative brain out there has dreamed up the enchanted chiropteran taxi service that we didn’t even know we needed in the world! That big, beautiful, creative brain, as it happens, belongs to artist Maggie Vandewalle, a master of watercolor whimsy whose paintings transport us to a world where the ordinary becomes extraordinary, and the impossible seems just within reach.

The hijinks in Maggie’s paintings often center around her animal subjects’ delightful misadventures and whimsical reveries.

In “Joyriding,” a quartet of cats finds themselves airborne on a witch’s broom, though their expressions suggest this is hardly cause for alarm. True to feline nature, they appear utterly nonplussed by their unusual mode of transportation. They’re not so much commandeering the broom as they are lazily draped across it, as if it were nothing more than an oddly shaped, floating cat tree. Adding to the whimsy, a tiny Siamese cat has made itself comfortable among the broom’s frizzly bristles, fast asleep and oblivious to the aerial escapade. It’s a scene that perfectly captures the essence of cats – even amid magic and mischief, they maintain their air of complete indifference and their unerring ability to make themselves comfortable in the most unlikely of situations.

In stark contrast to the aerial antics of “Joyriding,” “Constellations” invites us into a moment of quiet wonder. Here, an unlikely gathering of woodland creatures—a bear cub, a raccoon, a hare, and a mouse—sit in companionable silence, their gazes fixed upon the vast night sky above. The scene captures that universal moment of awe when one first truly sees the stars, their twinkling magnitude humbling and thrilling all at once. Each animal’s posture and expression is a study in rapt attention, reminding us that the capacity for wonder knows no species.

Maggie’s talent for visual storytelling and playful misdirection shines in “Obsession.” At first glance, we’re presented with a rust-stained concrete wall that serves as nature’s own curio cabinet. A dazzling array of insects—iridescent beetles, delicate butterflies, and mysterious moths—have alighted upon this urban canvas, creating a living mosaic of entomological wonders. Our eyes dance from one exquisite creature to the next, lost in a glittering sea of chitinous marvels and papery wings.

But as our gaze wanders downward, expectation gives way to delightful surprise. There, at the bottom of the painting, we discover a pair of bats, their furry faces buried in a feast of insects. What we initially perceived as an artist’s obsessive collection reveals itself to be nature’s own buffet, the bats’ rumbling tummies the true curators of this display. Vandewalle’s clever composition transforms our interpretation from aesthetic appreciation to ecological observation, reminding us with a wink that beauty in nature often serves a practical purpose. In “Obsession,” she invites us to look closer, to question our assumptions, and to find humor in the unexpected intersections of art and appetite.

From insects to flora, Maggie’s attention to detail never wavers. In “Thicket,” her mastery of texture comes to the fore in a breathtaking autumnal scene. A rustle of colorful birds flock around dying sunflowers, their wings a symphony of delicate brushstrokes that seem to flutter on the page. The lacy, spent florets of the sunflowers are rendered with exquisite detail, their intricate patterns a testament to nature’s fading beauty. Brown leaves curl at the edges, almost crackling with dryness, while the tufted seed heads of various Asteraceae add a softness to the composition. Concealed among the dying blooms, a tiny fae creature observes us with curious eyes, her delicate form melding with the stem she embraces—an enchanted detail awaiting discovery by the imaginative soul.

Her landscapes, too, carry this sense of enchantment. “Brume II” offers a glimpse of a mountain ridge beyond a fog-shrouded tree line, the scene suffused with a delightfully moody atmosphere. Yet, true to Vandewalle’s style, it never veers into the realm of the creepy or unsettling. Instead, it evokes a sense of cozy mystery, inviting the viewer to wrap themselves in the mist and dream of what might lie beyond.

This ability to balance the otherworldly with the comforting is what I love about Maggie’s work! Her paintings embody the spirit of eternal Octobers, capturing a unique emotional landscape that’s not quite melancholy, yet tinged with a gentle wistfulness. It’s a world too good-natured to be spooky, where even the fading of summer into autumn feels like a warm embrace rather than a chilling portent.

This is art that speaks to the child in me, sweet little Sarah (my grandmother always used to say, “Here comes little Sarah!” and sometimes that is still how I think of myself!), who still believes in the rustle of faerie wings in garden shadows and the possibility of stepping through a mirror into another world. A world where cats lounge nonchalantly on flying broomsticks, where woodland creatures gather under starlit skies, and mist-cloaked trees whisper secrets of hidden glades where time stands still. It’s a place where the impossible becomes probable, where whimsy reigns supreme in each bustling brushstroke and dreamy detail.

The scamper of tiny paws across attic floorboards, the scurry of leaves chasing each other down empty streets, the shiver that runs down our spine when we glimpse something just out of sight—these are the moments Maggie Vandewalle captures and magnifies, reminding us that the world is stranger and more wonderful than we dare to believe. Through her art, we’re shown that magic isn’t something we grow out of but something we grow deeper into, if only we keep our hearts and eyes open.

…And I believe in Maggie’s magic, I really do! Now, where’s my midnight palanquin of bats?  My body is ready for a haunted nightwing rideshare!

Extra tidbits! The fabulous, fantastical (and featured in The Art of Fantasy) “Straight On Til Morning” is currently a finalist for the RAYMAR Traditional Art Award, which is amazing–well done, Maggie, and best of luck!  Read more about this over at Beautiful Bizarre Magazine.

And…you know I had to ask about perfume! Maggie revealed that her favorite perfume is Light Blue by Dolce and Gabbana, with patchouli oil a close second. Additionally, I learned that she is a Magic: The Gathering enthusiast…and like me, nearly all her decks are green & black! I already felt a kinship with this wonderful artist through the happily haunted magics she conjures in her paintings, and this bit of intel sealed the deal.

Find Maggie Vandewalle: Website // Shop // Instagram // YouTube

If you enjoy posts like these or if you have ever enjoyed or been inspired by something I have written, and you would like to support this blog, consider buying the author a coffee?

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Many years ago, on this very blog, I wrote about my jewelry collection along with a current (at that time) wish-list of pieces of jewelry I was coveting. That post was dated for sometime in September of 2011, but I can assure you my love of all things shiny began much longer ago than that!

As a child, my imagination was captivated by visions of overflowing treasure chests, a fantasy undoubtedly born from the pages of storybooks and the flickering images on our TV screen. I recall being transfixed by the jewelry in every show and movie, my eyes drawn to the glittering accessories more than the plot or characters. The annual Miss Universe pageant was a particular delight – not for the competition itself, but for that moment when that ridiculously massive diamond(?)-studded tiara was placed upon the winner’s head, a coronation of sparkles that set my heart racing.

My fascination with jewelry and glamorous adornments wasn’t limited to real-world spectacles. The fictional realm provided just as much, if not more, fodder for my glittering dreams.

I was mesmerized by Glinda the Good Witch’s sparkling crown and wand, symbols of her benevolent magic. Princess Leia’s regal jewelry in the awards scene of Star Wars: A New Hope left me starry-eyed, dreaming of far-off galaxies where such elegance was commonplace. When not in her Wonder Woman attire, Diana Prince’s elegant looks captivated me, showing how jewelry could be both powerful and understated. I remember being glued to the TV during Susan Sarandon’s appearance on Masterpiece Theatre, drinking in every detail of her period-appropriate accessories. And who could forget Crystal Dreams Barbie? With her iridescent gown and crystal jewelry, she embodied the pinnacle of 80s glamour in miniature form, fueling my own crystal-centric fantasies.

The Sears catalog became my personal wish book, its pages dog-eared and worn as I revisited the jewelry section time and time again. And oh, the illustrations in my beloved copy of Aladdin! The Cave of Wonders, with its jeweled fruit trees, was a scene I’d lose myself in for hours, imagining the weight of those riches in my small hands. Actually–scratch that. My hands were 16 years old by the time I saw the animated movie, and I was every bit as enthralled ! But so what! Gimme all the sparkles now and forever!

Among my most treasured childhood memories is the ritual of exploring my grandmother’s jewelry box. It was a world unto itself, a miniature treasure trove that held endless fascination for me. The soft creak of its lid as I opened it, revealing tiers of compartments filled with glittering wonders. The musty, balsamic scent of Youth Dew perfume would waft up, an olfactory time capsule that instantly transported me to a realm of grown-up glamour. I’d spend hours trying on her collection of brooches, each one a miniature work of art in costume jewels and gilt metal. Strings of faux pearls would drape around my neck, clinking softly as I moved, while clip-on earrings pinched my earlobes with a delightful discomfort that made me feel impossibly sophisticated. These moments, playing dress-up with decades of collected memories and style, were more than just childhood fancy – they were my first real lessons in the power of jewelry to transform, to tell stories, and to connect generations.

As I grew, my tastes evolved, expanding far beyond the simple allure of sparkle and shine. The egg-shaped diamond rings that once seemed the height of sophistication gave way to more intricate, esoteric designs. I discovered the beauty in the unconventional, the strange, the downright occult – skulls adorned with crowns of thorns, talismanic claws clutching mystical stones, raw crystals seemingly plucked from the heart of some alien world. My collection began to resemble less a traditional jewelry box and more a cabinet of arcane curiosities.

Ouroboros rings coiled around my fingers, whispering secrets of eternity. Pendants bearing alchemical symbols and obscure runes nestled in the hollow of my throat, promising hidden knowledge. Earrings fashioned after rare deep-sea creatures dangled from my lobes, evoking the mysteries of the abyss. Each piece was a far cry from the princely jewels of my childhood fantasies, instead embodying a darker, more enigmatic allure.

Yet, there’s a cyclical nature to our tastes, isn’t there? Sometimes, I find myself longing for the overwrought melodrama of those childhood dreams. I’ll catch myself coveting a tiara so ostentatious it would make a soap opera diva blush, or a statement necklace so bold it could easily upstage its wearer. In these moments, I’m reminded of the little girl who dreamed of treasure chests overflowing with gems the size of a fist.

This pendulum swing between the esoteric and the extravagant, the subtle and the showy, has become a defining characteristic of my relationship with jewelry. It’s as if my collection is engaged in a never-ending masquerade ball, with each piece playing a role in an ever-unfolding drama of personal expression and transformation. More than just adornments, my jewelry has become a form of self-expression, each piece carefully chosen to reflect a facet of my personality or commemorate a moment in time.

After she died, a silver octopus pendant fashioned from a fork was found in my mother’s belongings wrapped for gift-giving. My sisters decided that she must have meant to give it to me as a Christmas gift. A weighty diamante four-leaf clover brooch with pearls at the center sits in my jewelry cabinet. It belonged to my grandmother; it was one of the very pieces from the jewelry box I mentioned above. But I can never seem to find the occasion to wear it.  A goddess smiles enigmatically, carved from the depths of a golden moon. This is a necklace I purchased for myself after I wrote my third book.

The emotional resonance of jewelry continues to surprise me. A simple charm can transport me back in time, while a new acquisition can fill me with a sense of possibility for the future. Each piece in my collection tells a story, whether it’s the tale of where it came from, who gave it to me, or what it represents in my personal journey. As my collection grew, so did my appreciation for the deeper meanings behind each piece. Jewelry, I’ve come to understand, is far more than decoration. It’s a form of symbolic language, a way to communicate beliefs and aspirations, and even to provide protection.

The esoteric symbols that now populate my collection – the all-seeing eyes, the protective hamsa hands, the intricate sacred geometry – each carry a weight of meaning that goes beyond aesthetics. These pieces have become talismans, objects imbued with significance and power. On days when I need an extra boost of courage, I might reach for my arrow necklace, a reminder to stay focused and move forward. When seeking clarity, my labradorite ring becomes a touchstone, its flashes of blue-green light seeming to illuminate my thoughts.

This idea of jewelry as a metaphysical shield has become increasingly important to me. In a world that can often feel chaotic and overwhelming, there’s comfort in adorning oneself with objects that feel like talismanic bulwarks against negative energies. My skull ring, far from being macabre, serves as a memento mori, a reminder to live fully and authentically. The weight of a substantial cuff bracelet can feel grounding, a barrier between myself and the world when I need that extra layer of security. The concept of jewelry as talisman is ancient, spanning cultures and centuries. From Egyptian scarabs to Victorian mourning jewelry, humans have long invested these small, wearable objects with great power. In embracing this tradition, I feel connected to a long line of individuals who have found strength, comfort, and identity in their adornments.

Beyond the visual allure, there’s an intimate, tactile dimension to jewelry that often goes unspoken. The weight of a substantial pendant against my chest, the cool touch of metal warming to my skin, the gentle clinking of bangles on my wrist – these sensations ground me in the present moment, a constant, subtle reminder of adornment and intention. I find myself absently tracing the contours of a ring while deep in thought, the familiar ridges and smooth surfaces becoming a form of tangible meditation. There’s a unique pleasure in the way different materials interact with the senses: the soft, warm glow of amber, the cool, liquid feel of pearls, the sharp facets of a cut crystal. Even the act of putting on jewelry becomes a ritual, a moment of mindfulness as I fasten a clasp or slip a ring onto my finger. Yet, for all this weighty symbolism, there remains in me that child who simply delighted in beautiful things. The enduring allure of “treasures” persists, speaking to something fundamental in human nature. We are drawn to that which glitters and shines, to objects that seem to capture light and transform it into something magical.

My passion for jewelry has profoundly influenced how I perceive the world, infusing everyday experiences with an unexpected sparkle. I’ve come to see the jewel-like qualities in nature and everyday objects, finding gems where others might see mere produce. The glossy, deep purple skin of an eggplant reminds me of polished amethyst, its curves mimicking the smooth cabochons in my favorite rings. Strawberries, with their vibrant red hue and seed-studded surface, evoke images of intricately worked rubies. This jewelry-tinted lens extends beyond the visual realm, coloring my other senses in surprising ways. In the world of perfumery, I often find myself describing scents in gemstone terms – this fragrance smells “amethystine,” with deep, purple notes of lavender and wine; that one has an “emerald” quality, fresh and verdant like newly unfurled leaves.

As I look at my collection now, arranged on my dresser top at eye level, heaped and draped in dishes and trays, and tucked away into several ornate little boxes, I’m struck by how it embodies both change and constancy. The specific pieces may be different from what I once dreamed of, but the joy they bring – that feeling of wonder and delight – remains unchanged from when I first pored over those catalog pages.

In many ways, my jewelry collection has become my own personal Cave of Wonders. Each piece, whether a finely crafted artisanal item or a quirky flea market find, is a treasure in its own right. They are artifacts of my journey, markers of my growth, and yes, still objects of beauty that make my heart sing just as they did when I was young. My love for jewelry has been a constant companion, evolving as I have, reflecting my growth and changing perspectives. From the imaginary treasure chests of my childhood to the carefully curated collection of my adulthood, it’s been a journey marked by sparkle, significance, and self-discovery.

As I alluded to in a post last week, as I reflect on this lifelong fascination, I realize that my relationship with jewelry is just one of many threads that have woven the tapestry of who I am today. After two decades of blogging, I find myself drawn to exploring these origin stories – the experiences, passions, and influences that have shaped me.

In the grand scheme of things, I may be less than a nobody. Yet, I can’t help but envision a future where someone stumbles upon an old perfume review I’ve written or finds one of my books in a dusty corner of a used bookstore and thinks, “Hey, this person seems really interesting. I wonder what they were like?” It’s a small hope, perhaps, but isn’t that a fundamentally human desire? To leave behind some essence of ourselves, some breadcrumbs for future curious souls to follow?

Who doesn’t like to tell the story of who they are? Who doesn’t, in some small way, want to be known and understood? These origin stories – of my love for jewelry, my fascination with scent, my adventures in cooking and art – they’re my way of saying “This is who I am. This is what shaped me.”

It eventually shaped me into a ghoul who loves jewels (which, in my imagination, looks a bit like the imagery of Maria Germanova below!) Read more on my fascination with her here and here and here!

So, dear future reader (if you exist), consider this the beginning of a trail. In the coming weeks and months, I’ll be delving into other formative fascinations and pivotal moments in my life. From my early encounters with scary terrors to my first sprays of perfume, from a childhood love of all things “flowerdy” to adult adventures in cooking – each of these stories has contributed to the person I’ve become and the way I see the world. I invite you – whether you’re reading this hot off the press or years down the line – to join me on this journey of reflection and rediscovery in unearthing these defining experiences and their resulting passions.  And I hope you’ll share yours as well along the way!

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An idea sprouted recently when I posed a question on Instagram, asking if there was anything people wanted to see me discuss in a YouTube video.

Someone commented that they’d love to hear about how I came by my love of cooking. This got me thinking – there are quite a few fascinations and fixations that are integral to who I am, making up a large portion of my personality. I realized I’d love to do some serious reflecting and writing about these aspects of myself, beyond chatter for my YouTube channel. Maybe a whole series of writings! Yes, yes, I’ll eventually get around to the YouTube stuff, too.

But then it hit me… wow… that’s an awful lot of talking about myself. Even more so than usual!

This realization led me to contemplate my relationship with self-reflection and self-expression, particularly in my writing. There’s a commonly held belief that it’s rude to talk about oneself. This unspoken rule has long shaped social interactions, tempering personal revelations in polite conversation. And yet, here I am, as I have been for years now, engaging in what some might consider a cardinal sin of etiquette – I write about myself. Constantly. Brazenly. And with a fervor that both thrills and (occasionally) unnerves me.

The irony doesn’t escape me; I find myself perpetually both the subject and the scribe, the observer and the observed. With each essay, each blog post, each scribbled note, I feel a familiar tug – not of hesitancy, but of excitement tinged with a lingering, socially-conditioned squirm of self-consciousness. It’s as if I’m indulging in a pleasure that, according to some unwritten code, should be taken in moderation.

In the depths of my years-long practice of self-reflection, a realization has taken root and blossomed: I am, unabashedly and unequivocally, one of the most interesting people I know. This isn’t vanity speaking, but rather a hard-earned appreciation for the labyrinth of thoughts, experiences, and contradictions that make up my being. Each of us is a universe unto ourselves, a constellation of memories, desires, fears, and wonders. To explore this inner cosmos, to map its terrain and share its marvels – it’s a journey that forever captivates me.

When I write about myself, I’m not just cataloging events or listing traits. I’m continuing an ongoing expedition into the ever-changing territories of my psyche, returning with field notes that chronicle my personal human experience. In my joys and sorrows, my triumphs and blunders, I find a complex mosaic of life that feels endlessly fascinating to explore.

This self-exploration manifests in myriad ways throughout my writing. When I delve into the realm of grotesque, avant-garde fashion, I’m not just analyzing fabric and form – I’m excavating the parts of myself drawn to the unconventional, the shocking, the beautifully disturbing. Each piece is a mirror, reflecting facets of my own complex relationship with aesthetics and identity.

My perfume reviews are much more than descriptions of scent notes and sillage. (I don’t even talk about sillage. Who cares about how long it lasts or how big or small your stink-miasma is? Spray more if you need to!) Instead, they’re portals into the dreamscapes of my inner world. As I write about a fragrance, I weave in the fiction of my imagination, the stories and scenes that each scent evokes. It’s a deeply personal olfactory journey, something uniquely mine.

And my fascination with grief and horror? It’s not just morbid curiosity. It’s an extension of my attempt to understand the depths of human emotion, to explore the shadows that dwell within us all. In writing about these themes, I’m processing my own fears, confronting my own mortality, and finding strange comfort in the universality of these dark experiences.

All of it – every word, every topic, every obsession – comes from a deeply personal place. I see myself reflected in the grotesque and the beautiful, in the imagined worlds conjured by a perfume, in the melancholic and the horrific. My writing is a kaleidoscope of weirdness and relentless self-inquiry, each turn revealing new patterns of my inner world.

I’m my biggest advocate for this practice, and yet occasionally, I am very self-conscious about this proclivity of mine. I’m acutely aware that my enthusiasm for self-reflection, especially when it takes such dark and unconventional forms, might be perceived as self-absorption or edgelordy sensationalism by others. And yet, I can’t deny the deep satisfaction and insight I gain from this practice. It’s a personal indulgence, yes, but one that feels vital to my understanding of myself and my place in the world. In many ways, it’s become the cornerstone of my writing practice.

Interestingly, I’ve noticed a trend in book reviews where critics often bristle at authors who pepper their nonfiction works with personal stories. It’s a critique I’ve never understood. In fact, I love it when authors do this. Personal stories are important, especially in how they relate to the subjects you’re passionately writing about.

If someone is somehow enthusiastic enough to write an entire book about carving wooden soup spoons or the mating habits of jumping spiders, don’t you want to know why? And doesn’t that entail getting to know the author better? These personal anecdotes and reflections provide context, depth, and a human connection to the subject matter. They transform dry facts into lived experiences, making the content more relatable and, often, more memorable.

In embracing this art of writing about myself through these varied lenses, I’m not turning away from the world, but rather processing my experiences of it. I’m creating a record of my journey through life, capturing the evolving landscape of my thoughts and feelings, from the grotesque to the grief-stricken, from the imaginary scent-scapes to the horrific. It’s a deeply personal archive, a testament to my existence and my growth.

So I’ll continue to write about myself, not to challenge any societal norms or to encourage others to do the same, but simply because it feels true to who I am. It’s a practice that brings me joy, insight, and a sense of continuity in my ever-changing life. In the end, perhaps that’s all the justification I need – this is who I am, this is what I do, and I find it endlessly fascinating

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There’s a mesmerizing quality to Jerome Podwil’s book covers that arrests the eye and captivates the imagination. His artistry weaves an irresistible spell, whether depicting the shadowy corridors of gothic romance or the shimmering vistas of far-flung galaxies. Podwil possesses a rare gift: the ability to imbue his subjects with a depth and complexity that transcends the typical boundaries of cover illustration.

Gazing upon a Podwil heroine is akin to peering through a window into a fully realized world. These aren’t mere figments of fantasy, but women with hidden depths and untold stories etched into every line and shadow. Their eyes, rendered with exquisite care, seem to hold secrets just beyond the viewer’s grasp. Each expression is a masterclass in subtle storytelling, hinting at complex emotions and veiled motivations that leave you yearning to unravel their mysteries.

What truly sets Podwil’s work apart is his uncanny ability to marry this psychological depth with an ethereal beauty. His touch is delicate yet assured, creating faces that are at once soft and strong, vulnerable and resolute. The eyes, in particular, are windows not just to the soul of the character, but to entire worlds. They’ve an immersive, expansive quality draw you in so completely that you can almost feel yourself slipping into the character’s perspective, seeing their gothic mansions or starlit skies through their eyes.

Podwil’s affinity for, and fluency in, the gothic is evident in his work on classic tales like Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray or the Dark Shadows novel The Mystery of Collinwood. While these pieces may not be his most daring or groundbreaking creations, they resonate with the eerie charm of the genre. Podwil’s brush dances between light and shadow, conjuring an atmosphere thick with unspoken secrets and lurking supernatural presence. As I gaze at these covers, I’m struck by how effortlessly he distills the essence of gothic literature, that palpable sense of brooding atmosphere and latent supernatural menace, into visual form. These works, while honoring the classic status of their source material, bear the unmistakable mark of Podwil’s artistry – a testament to his ability to infuse even well-trodden paths with his unique vision.

But Podwil’s artistic prowess isn’t confined to the realm of the gothic. His science fiction covers reveal an equally deft touch, transporting viewers to cosmic vistas that feel at once alien and oddly familiar. Where other artists might assault the senses with harsh lines and chromium gleam, Podwil opts for a more nuanced approach. His extraterrestrial landscapes are rendered in muted jewel tones, creating worlds that feel less like cold, distant planets and more like half-remembered dreams.

It’s no wonder that Podwil’s name frequently surfaced during last year’s search for the artist behind the iconic A Wrinkle in Time cover art. While that particular piece wasn’t his work (it is Richard Bober!) the frequent attribution speaks volumes about Podwil’s reputation in the field. His sci-fi illustrations share that same sense of wonder and otherworldly beauty that many associate with classic young adult science fiction.

In Podwil’s hands, celestial bodies become precious gems suspended in the velvet backdrop of space. His galactic empresses and space vampires exude an otherworldly glamour, their alien nature conveyed through subtle, telling details rather than outlandish caricatures. Even his depictions of spaceships and stations possess a whimsical, almost organic quality, as if they’ve grown naturally from the stuff of stars rather than being wrought by future engineers.

Podwil’s approach to science fiction illustration offers a unique perspective in a genre often dominated by sleek, technological imagery. While his covers are rich with detail, they feel more like stumbling upon an ornate treasure chest than poring over a complicated NASA blueprint. Each element, from swirling nebulae to gleaming spacecraft, is rendered with exquisite care, inviting viewers to lose themselves in a galaxy of intricate particulars. This style captures the wonder of space exploration not through sterile precision, but through a sense of opulent mystery that beckons the imagination.

In an era when cover art often served as mere marketing, Podwil elevated it to an art form in its own right. His distinctive style, at once recognizable and ever-surprising, transforms each cover into a carefully composed overture. Layers of visual storytelling complement and expand upon the written word, enriching the reader’s journey from the moment they lay eyes on the book.

Jerome Podwil’s book covers visual feasts and not simply previews, but portals to worlds both familiar and fantastical. When I encounter a Podwil piece, I’m drawn into a narrative that begins long before the first page is turned.

To discover Podwil’s work is to unearth a hidden treasure trove of imagination. His dreamy, evocative style reminds us of the magic inherent in a single image. Whether beckoning us down a gothic mansion’s candlelit corridor or to a distant planet where crystalline spires rise under triple moons, Podwil’s art whispers of midnight revelations and stardust-streaked journeys. Each cover is an invitation to step through the looking glass, a promise of adventure that lingers long after the book is closed. In this artist’s capable hands, the humble book cover becomes a gateway to infinite possibilities, sparking our imagination and priming us for the wonders that await within the pages and beyond

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Last month, I embarked on another hiatus from social media – a recurring theme in my digital life, at least in recent years, and one I’ve explored in my writing before. (Six months ago, in fact.)

My decision to step away stemmed from a deeply personal need to create space – space to think, to breathe, to exist without the constant hum of likes, comments, and shares warping my perceptions– but of course, the issues that drove me to this decision are far from unique. They’re the same concerns that many of us grapple with daily as we navigate our increasingly digital lives. However, I felt compelled to examine these problems more closely, to understand their grip on my psyche and their influence on my creative and personal life. With each login, I found myself feeling progressively worse, a creeping, crappy malaise that was becoming impossible to ignore. It was time to step back and really scrutinize why social media was leaving such a bitter taste.

Three main issues kept surfacing, each one familiar yet no less potent:

First, the comparison trap. But it’s not about picture-perfect homes or envy-inducing vacations. No, my comparisons cut deeper, striking at the heart of my creative pursuits. It’s hideously humiliating and somehow vulgar to admit, but it has to do with seeing fellow writers, art enthusiasts, and perfume reviewers garner more success, more followers, more engagement. This is even (and especially) with regard to the people I actually like and respect, but it’s also about people I feel hateful and spiteful toward, ie the agony of watching “art” accounts rack up thousands of likes for posting images without context or depth – a stark contrast to the effort I pour into my efforts. It’s the sting of seeing authors, yes, okay, probably more talented but also infinitely more gregarious, well connected, and good at marketing themselves, embark on glamorous book tours. Or perfume influencers courted by brands to showcase their latest scents.  If I can come right out and say it, it stings to see the loudest people (I might say “most obnoxious” on a crankier day) get all the accolades.

And here’s the rub: it’s not that I necessarily want what they have. I don’t crave to be a brand spokesperson or a social media darling or to be invited as a subject matter expert on some panel or another. But there’s an undeniable twinge of desire to be recognized, to be considered. To have brands (and whoever else) think of me as someone worth approaching, even if I might decline. It’s a peculiar form of FOMO – not fear of missing out on experiences, but fear of missing out on acknowledgment.

This specific brand of comparison is insidious. It doesn’t just make me question my lifestyle or my possessions; it makes me question my worth with regard to the things I’m most passionate about. It’s a constant, gnawing doubt: am I not good enough, or just not visible enough? Or do people just really, really not like me? I once read someone’s musings on Twitter and took it to heart in the worst way. I am very much paraphrasing and embellishing here, but it was something like, “Is it really imposter syndrome? Or are you just unbearably mediocre?” Social media chafes me in this way; my heart is constantly rubbed raw with these feelings.

Second, the pervasive toxicity of online discourse. It’s a landscape where nuance goes to die, and empathy seems in short supply. No matter what you express – be it an opinion, a creative work, or a personal experience – there’s an army of keyboard warriors poised to dissect, criticize, and often, misinterpret your words. This isn’t just about trolls; often, it’s well-meaning individuals who, in their passion for a cause, create an environment where disagreement is tantamount to moral failure. The “discourse” moves at a breakneck pace, with yesterday’s progressive stance becoming today’s faux pas. In this climate, maintaining an authentic voice becomes an exhausting act of resistance, a constant battle between wanting to engage meaningfully and protecting oneself from potential backlash.

Lastly, the insidious nature of manufactured desires. Social media has evolved into a finely-tuned machine, expertly crafting wants we never knew we had. It’s not just about material goods – though suddenly coveting avante gard perfume or books with artfully spooky covers or flowy linen dresses from brands I’ve never heard of is certainly part of it. More pervasively, it sells idealized versions of beauty, relationships, and lifestyles, creating a perpetual state of yearning for often unattainable or even fictional lives. This constant exposure to curated perfection and targeted advertising breeds a gnawing sense of inadequacy. The result is an endless state of low-grade dissatisfaction, a continuous reaching for something just out of grasp. It’s a subtle but persistent assault on contentment, always insinuating that what we have – and who we are – isn’t quite enough.

So I stepped away. And in that absence, I rediscovered something both familiar and startling: a forgotten rhythm of life. It wasn’t just about reclaiming time – though that was certainly part of it. It was about slipping back into a skin I’d long thought I’d outgrown. A simpler, more uncomplicated way of existing that had been patiently waiting for me to remember its cadence.

But time, yes. Lots more of it. The hours previously lost to mindless scrolling and emotional processing of online content were now mine again. And while I didn’t use this reclaimed time to start a revolution or write the next great American novel, I found myself doing more of what I already loved – and loving it even more.

I wrote more blog posts, diving deeper into topics that fascinate me without the distraction of checking for reactions or comparing my output to others. I shared more silliness on Patreon, connecting with my supporters in a way that felt genuine and unhurried. Perfume and book reviews, while they certainly were not without effort, were written at a nearly frantic pace.

Perhaps most surprisingly, I devoured books at a rate that astounded even me – 25 in just one month! It was as if my mind, freed from the constant fragmentation of social media, could lose itself with wild abandon in long-form stories and ideas.

My kitchen saw more action, too, as I experimented with new recipes and rediscovered old favorites. And it’s a good thing I had this extra time and energy because life, as it often does, pulled out the rug from underneath us. Metaphorically speaking. It was more like entangled vines than a rug. Yvan broke his foot, suddenly doubling my household responsibilities (and maybe exponentially skyrocketing my anxiety.) Yet, even with this added stress, I found myself more capable of adapting and managing than I might have been a month ago.

The most profound realization, however, wasn’t about productivity or regaining control over my time. It was a feeling of lightness. And clarity. And I know that sounds cheesy or self-helpy or whatever, but I can’t deny that the constant background noise of comparison, judgment, and artificial desire had lifted in a really significant way, leaving me with a sense of something that, if not “contentment,” well, it was somewhat close. Despite the fact that this had been the month from hell, I guess it at least was a month where I was fully present in my own life. Did that feel “good”? I don’t know about all that.

So how did it feel? It felt a little bit like those summers as a kid when I had nothing to do but lounge around on our overheated screened porch and read all day. I read voraciously, one book after the other. With no thought in my mind about sharing reading stats, taking artful photos of my TBR piles, making public book recommendations after each title was finished, or worrying if the author I just shared was somehow problematic and I didn’t realize it, and now everyone’s going to jump down my throat and make me feel like a giant piece of shit about it

In essence, extrapolating beyond the book analogy, I simply existed. I did things for the sake of doing them, without the compulsion to share or perform for an online audience. It wasn’t about feeling good or bad; it was about just being. Each day was simply a day, lived on its own terms. The word that comes to mind is “uncomplicated.” Without the constant junky noise of social media, life took on a different quality. Even in the face of July’s typical challenges and unexpected hurdles, everything felt… lighter. Easier to navigate. It wasn’t that problems disappeared, but rather that I could face them without the added weight of digital expectations and comparisons.

Now, as I log back in, I’m under no illusion that this is a long-term fix. There’s a good chance I’ll soon be back to mindless scrolling and needless comparisons. It’s a familiar cycle.

Still, this month wasn’t wasted. I’ve rediscovered that I can function—even thrive—without constant connection. When Yvan’s broken foot pulled the rug from under us, I managed without the added malcontent that social media often brings.

Will anything change long-term? Who knows. But I’ve reminded myself there are alternatives when it all becomes too much. You’ll likely catch me contemplating another break soon enough. (Or maybe I’ll spare you the 1500-word exposition next time.)

Until then, see you online. Or not. We’ll see how it goes.

Psst! If you’re curious what I did with myself and all that extra time, stay tuned for a YouTube video where I check in all through the month and share what I’m up to each day!

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My dear weirdlings & kindred spirits,

For two decades, I’ve been living a double life. By day, I’m a dedicated office worker, diligently clocking in my 9-to-5. But in the stolen moments between meetings and after hours, I’m a published author, a prolific blogger, and a passionate creator. While my heart lies in the latter, it’s the former that actually pays the bills.

Today, I’m reaching out to you, not just as an author or a blogger, but as a fellow traveler through life’s rich, vast, sometimes terrifying, oftentimes beautiful weirdness. If you’ve found yourself nodding along to my musings on art that makes your pulse quicken, or music that stirs the shadows in your soul; if you’ve felt seen when I’ve written about the anxieties that keep us up at night, or the grief that colors our days; if you’ve lingered over my words about fashion that tells a story, or perfumes that evoke memories we thought long lost – then this message is for you.

My writing has always been a way to explore the intersections of beauty and fear, of life and death, of the mundane and the supernatural. I’ve poured my heart into examining how horror seeps into our everyday lives, how the ghostly and the gothic inform our culture, and how we can find meaning in the face of mortality. These contemplations are not always easy to ponder upon or fun to write about, but I believe they’re necessary. And I’ve chosen to keep this space – our space – free from ads and sponsored content, to maintain the purity of our conversation.

Let me address the elephant in the room: I know no one asked me to write about these things. And yet, here I am, not only writing but now asking for your support. Is it presumptuous? Perhaps. But here’s the thing: there’s no surer way to make me not want to do something than to feel obligated because someone asked me to. I write because I must, because these words and ideas demand to be expressed. And I share them hoping they might resonate with kindred spirits like you.

Today, I’m stepping out of my comfort zone to share how you, my wonderful readers, can support my creative endeavors if they resonate with you. It’s not easy for me to make these requests, but I believe in the power of community to nurture art and literature. And many, many thanks to the individuals who have supported me in some way over the years.

If my unquiet explorations resonate with you, if they’ve ever made you feel less alone in your fascinations or fears, I’m deeply grateful. And if you’d like to support this work, to help keep this little corner of the internet a sanctuary for the uncanny, the poetic, and the profound, here are some ways you can do so:

Financial Support:

• Buy my books: Whether you prefer a personalized touch with a signed copy directly from me or the convenience of your favorite bookseller, every purchase is deeply appreciated.
• Join my Patreon: For the fragrance enthusiasts among you, I offer a special Patreon where I share my quirky thoughts on perfumes. Certain tiers even receive scented letters – a truly immersive olfactory experience!
• Use Amazon affiliate links: When you shop through the Amazon links on my site, I receive a small commission at no extra cost to you.
• I have also curated a little Amazon shop with all of my favorite and most-used things!
• Browse my Pango bookshop: Looking for gently used books at fantastic prices? My virtual bookshelf is open! You might just find your next favorite read while helping me clear my bookshelves.

Non-Monetary Support:

• Leave reviews: If you’ve enjoyed my books, consider leaving a review. Your words can help others discover my work and make a significant impact.
• Request my books at your local library: This not only makes my work more accessible but also supports our vital public libraries.
• Share on social media: Found a blog post intriguing or a TikTok perfume review entertaining? Sharing, retweeting, or reblogging helps spread the word and reach new audiences.
• Engage with comments: Your thoughts and reactions in the comments sections of my various projects are invaluable. They provide encouragement and spark discussions that often inspire new ideas.

I want to emphasize that while financial support is helpful, it’s not the only way to contribute. Your engagement, whether through sharing a post or leaving a thoughtful comment, is equally precious. Remember, behind every book, blog post, or creative project, there’s a person pouring their heart and soul into their craft. Your support, in whatever form you choose to give it, helps keep the words flowing and the ideas percolating. I mean…I’m probably going to be wordy and weird anyway, but support truly does make it easier!

Thank you for being part of this journey. Your presence in this community means more than you know. Together, we’re nurturing a space for creativity, imagination, and shared experiences – one that remains free from advertising and sponsored content.

So, whether you decide to pick up a book, join the fragrant adventures on Patreon, or simply share a post that touched you, know that you’re making a difference. You’re not just supporting me; you’re championing the arts and helping to keep the literary world vibrant and diverse. But you are also showing this weird misfit who doesn’t always feel like a human person in this world, a bit of human kindness and connection. And I love you for that.

Here’s to many more years of stories, scents, and shared weirdness. I know I sound like a public radio fund drive here, but it’s true: your support makes it all possible.

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I have been blogging in some form or another for over 20 years, but this thing, this Unquiet Thing here, came to be in 2014 or so. I don’t recall when exactly, so I am calling today an anniversary!

(It’s been a stressful month and I need something to celebrate, okay??)

For ten years, I’ve thought of this blog as a portal to excavate and explore the mysterious, the macabre, and the magical – a place where we’ve unraveled artistic enigmas, explored the artistic depths of gothic romance, and even found the tender side of cartoon villains. We’ve delved into obscure traditions, celebrated forgotten artists, and contemplated the profound meaning hidden in the mundane. As we reflect on our journey through the shadows and wonders of art, literature, and life, let’s revisit the ten most popular posts that have captivated readers and sparked curiosity.

From unsolved mysteries in children’s literature to the dark corners of occult art, from winter fashion to webcomic monsters, these articles represent the chimerical/phantasmagorical/numinous/eldritch/uncanny spirit of Unquiet Things. Join us as we embark on a twilight stroll down memory lane, where shadows throb and thrum in the candlelight, where whispers of forgotten lore mingle with the rustle of tattered book pages, and where the veil between the mundane and the marvelous grows gossamer-thin. We will also look at some cheese maggots!

Together, we’ll revisit the stories and discoveries that have made this blog a sanctuary for those who find beauty in cobwebbed corners, meaning in misty legends, and wonder in the wildly weird. Each step will unearth treasures both unsettling and sublime, inviting you to lose yourself once more in the labyrinth of curiosities that is Unquiet Things.

• A Mystery That Should Not Exist: Who Is The Cover Artist For This Edition Of A Wrinkle In Time? A deep dive into an artistic enigma that has puzzled book lovers and art enthusiasts alike.
  — And, of course, the follow-up post: A mystery that no longer exists!
• Monster as Metaphor: John Allison, Webcomics Genius Exploring the clever storytelling and symbolic monsters in John Allison’s acclaimed webcomics.
• A Depraved Brutality: The Art of Aleksandra Waliszewska Delving into the dark, unsettling, and mesmerizing world of Polish artist Aleksandra Waliszewska.
• Jane Whiting (J.M.W.) Chrzanoska Shining a spotlight on the elegant and ethereal works of this artist whose works intrigued the days of my childhood
• How to wear the Winter Solstice A guide to embracing the darkest day of the year through fashion and personal style.
• The Art Of The Occult And The Elusive Rosaleen Norton Uncovering the fascinating life and controversial art of Australia’s “Witch of Kings Cross.”
• About Skeletor Is Love An unexpected exploration of the softer side of everyone’s favorite Masters of the Universe villain and the journey we embarked on together
• The Christmas Service of the Dead  A haunting yuletide tradition that bridges the gap between the living and crusty Christmas skeletons.
• Deep Thoughts: On Old Cardigans A deep philosophical musing on well-worn sweaters. (Just kidding, sort of.)
• Bargain Bin Gothic Romance Poking fun at my favorite overwrought visuals in the world of gothic romance novels.

Bonus! Here is one of my favorites that did not make the top ten most viewed: A Vibrant Rascality of Shenanigans: The Fantasticalicizm Of Anna Mond.

Bonus bonus! Here are the top three most-viewed guest posts:

• Ten Goth Cheeses and How To Pair Them
• Ten Gems of Decadent Cinema
• Vampires, Witches, and Ghosts: The Top Ten Reasons Why I Love the Holiday Season

These posts represent just a fraction of the strange and wonderful blogulations I have shared over the years. They’ve taken us on journeys through haunted yuletides and sun-starved winter days, introduced us to artists both celebrated and obscure, and invited us to look at the world around us with fresh, curious eyes. From the pages of bargain bin gothic romance cover art to the canvases of controversial painters, from the panels of clever webcomics to the whispers of forgotten traditions, Unquiet Things has always sought to illuminate the hidden corners of culture and creativity.

As we look back on a decade of exploration, I am filled with gratitude for every reader who has joined us on this unconventional adventure. Your enthusiasm, your questions, and your own unquiet thoughts have fueled my passion for uncovering the extraordinary in the ordinary.

But the journey is far from over, and I would love to hear from you. What topics would you like to see more of in the coming years? Which of these top ten posts resonated with you the most, and why? Perhaps you have your own favorite post that didn’t make this list? Or maybe there’s an unexplored area of the strange and beautiful that you think deserves some attention here?

Share your thoughts in the comments below. Your input will help shape the future of Unquiet Things, ensuring that we continue to delve into the subjects that fascinate and inspire you. (HA! As if! I will probably only write what I want to write anyway, but it seems like asking you guys is the polite thing to do!) But seriously though–here’s to many more years of asking questions, challenging perceptions, and celebrating the wonderfully weird world around us!

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Confession. I have never watched Lawnmower Man. I haven’t the slightest idea what it is meant to be about. But in my imagination, it’s a man who magically turns into a lawnmower? But less magical and more body horror? Sort of a cross between Usagi Tsukino turning into a magical girl Sailor Guardian, and Optimus Prime transforming into a semi-truck, but with more lawnmowers and directed by Takashi Miike? Don’t spoil it for me.

Anyway, I’m standing in front of the mirror, tugging on canvas overalls with cute little vegetables dancing on them, in contrast to the heavy, ugly socks already on my feet. Outside, the morning sun burns off last night’s thunderstorm, steam rising from our overgrown lawn. I’m waiting for it to dry, but truthfully, I’m stalling.

Today, I have to mow the lawn for the first time in my life.

For days, I’ve been in a fog, fixated on this looming task. The thought of pushing that snarling machine across our yard has consumed me. What if I do it wrong? What if I leave drunken paths crisscrossing the lawn, a clear beacon to our neighbors that I have no idea what I’m doing? And then there’s the machine itself – all I can picture are whirling blades waiting to catch my fingers or toes–what if I mow my hands right off?

The thermometer already reads 92 degrees. I’m going to be a sweaty, nervous wreck out there.

This isn’t just about mowing a lawn, though. It’s about how quickly life can throw you out of orbit. Adding to my anxiety is the ticking clock of our Homeowners Association, a cabal of faceless enforcers I live in constant fear of. Any day now, I expect a passive-aggressive email reminding us of our “community standards.”

As I’m suiting up, a bittersweet realization hits me: at this very moment, Yvan and I were supposed to be on a plane to Denver. Our first real vacation since 2017, a trip now canceled due to his broken foot. Strangely, I find myself less upset about the missed vacation and more anxious about the impending lawn mowing task. This realization puzzles me – shouldn’t I be more disappointed about our canceled plans?

But beneath all of this surface-level stress lies a deeper, more primal fear. Yvan, my partner-in-crime, maybe even my handler, you could say (I am very high-strung, and he is so good at calming me down) – he’s injured. Aside from our simultaneous contraction of Covid back in the autumn of 2022, for the first time since we’ve been together, I’m faced with the stark reality of his vulnerability. He can be hurt. He’s mortal. He’s gonna die. We’re all gonna die. This is the part where I start disassociating.

But life has a funny way of surprising you. As I stood there, I glanced out the window to see my neighbor’s lawn service arrive. The neighbor herself, out on her driveway, talking to the guys. She’s the sister of the woman who we bought the house from, so I am actually more afraid of her judgement than the HOA (she is actually on the HOA, too, though!) To my amazement, though, she wasn’t complaining about us; she was sending them our way! One of the crew members strolled over to our property and started edging our lawn. Soon after, a man on a riding mower appeared, making quick work of our overgrown grass jungle.

When they finished, they left their boss’s business card. With shaking hands, I passed it to Yvan. He made the call, and just like that, we were on their schedule for the next two months.

In that moment, I felt like I could finally breathe again. I could think again! The fog that had been clouding my mind began to lift, and I realized just how much this one task had been affecting me. It wasn’t just about mowing the lawn – it was about feeling overwhelmed, out of my depth, and scared of failing.

This experience has made me reflect on how we cope when life throws us curveballs. I’ve found myself thrust back into the role of caregiver – a familiar position from caring for my grandparents, who were quite old, but one I wasn’t ready to revisit so soon, especially with my partner, who is four years younger than I am! There’s a fog that descends, clouding thoughts and making even simple decisions feel overwhelming, it’s like trying to navigate through pea soup while also juggling chainsaws. The fatigue that comes with this domestic role reversal is real and pervasive.  Tasks that were once shared now fall squarely on my shoulders. I’m learning to adapt, but the stress of this rapid adjustment is palpable.

Perhaps most challenging is the discomfort of being pushed so far out of my comfort zone. I’m constantly aware that I’m operating in unfamiliar territory, reminded of how much I relied on Yvan’s knowledge and skills in these areas. I don’t know if he’s a better driver than me (I mean, probably), but he is certainly less nervous. And now I am the one driving to the grocery store, to doctor’s appointments, to family dinners. Much like the thought of having to mow the lawn is almost incapacitating, knowing that I have to drive us somewhere at the end of the day takes up every spare bit of brain space I have and leaves room for absolutely nothing else. I can’t hold a conversation or make a decision; I can barely get out of bed and get dressed in the morning–my anxiety takes up so much room.

This leads to a maddening paradox now in my daily life. For example, despite being a pretty decent cook, I’m ordering out more frequently than I’d like, which is neither good for our wallet nor our health.  Or how we’d trained ourselves to wake up at 5 am and walk for 2-3 miles several days a week, and now I just fitfully sleep in, ignoring the alarm and the only form of exercise I even like to engage in. I mean, obviously, Yvan’s not going to hobbling around the block in the pre-dawn hours with his unwieldy boot and crutches, but I’ve got no excuse! This discrepancy between what I’m capable of and what I’m actually doing has led me to a realization that both fascinates and frustrates me: the routines we build and the self-care habits we practice should, in theory, serve us best in times of stress. They should be our lifeline when life gets chaotic, a form of muscle memory kicking in to ensure we take care of ourselves when our minds are overwhelmed.

Yet, I’m finding the opposite to be true. These habits, so easy to maintain when life flows smoothly, seem to crumble at the first sign of turbulence. It’s as if the neural pathways I’ve carefully constructed for self-care short-circuit under pressure. Why is it that precisely when I need these routines most, they feel the hardest to maintain?

There’s a cruel irony in how effortlessly I can stick to my habits when life is easy, only to watch them dissolve when the going gets tough. It’s like I’ve been training for a marathon on a treadmill, only to find myself stumbling on the actual, uneven terrain of life’s challenges. This disconnect between intention and action, between what I know I should do and what I actually do in times of stress, is disheartening.

I can’t help but wonder: am I failing my habits, or are my habits failing me? Perhaps the way we approach building these routines is flawed. Maybe we need to design our self-care strategies not for the calm days, but for the storms. Because it’s in these moments of crisis, when all sense of self-preservation seems to go out the window, that we need our good habits the most. And yet, it’s precisely then that they feel the most elusive.

As the day winds down, I realize something that’s been lurking beneath the surface all week: today marks the one-year anniversary of my father’s death. The realization hits me with a vicious pinch, and suddenly, all the stress and anxiety of the past few days takes on a new dimension. Had this been simmering in my subconscious all along, adding to my sense of unease and displacement? I had a hard time grieving my dad because we didn’t have much of a relationship, but the connection between my current struggles and this anniversary isn’t lost on me. Perhaps my fixation on the lawn, the driving, and the mundane tasks of daily life was a way of avoiding the complicated feelings that this day brings. It’s easier, after all, to worry about grass and left-hand turns than to confront the permanent absence of a father-daughter relationship I now will never have a chance to repair.

This realization brings a new layer of complexity to my emotional landscape. It reminds me that our reactions to life’s challenges are often influenced by factors we’re not even consciously aware of. The fact that I was more anxious about mowing the lawn than disappointed about our canceled trip suddenly makes more sense – in the face of grief and mortality, everyday tasks can become both a distraction and a lifeline.

As I sit here, rereading what I’ve written, I find myself wondering about the purpose of this exercise. Why did I feel compelled to put these thoughts to paper? Perhaps it’s an attempt to make sense of the chaos, to find patterns in the seemingly random series of events that have upended my life. Or maybe it’s simpler than that – a need to externalize the swirling thoughts and emotions that have been consuming me.

I don’t know if these experiences have official names or if psychologists have studied them, but putting words to these feelings—maybe “Routine Disruption Syndrome,” “Caregiver’s Fog,” “Adaptive Stress Overload,” “Domestic Role Reversal Fatigue,” or “Comfort Zone Exodus Syndrome”—makes me feel less alone and less crazy. Maybe by naming these experiences, I can start to understand them better and, in understanding, find some measure of peace.
I don’t have any profound conclusions to draw, no neat resolutions to offer. The lawn is mowed, but my anxiety lingers. Yvan’s foot will heal, but the reminder of our fragility remains. The anniversary of my father’s death has passed, but the weird emotions it stirs up aren’t so easily tidied away.

What I’m left with is a messy, scarily honest snapshot of a middle-aged life. It’s not pretty or inspirational, but it’s real. And maybe that’s the point – to acknowledge the struggle, to give voice to the discomfort of change and loss, without trying to sugarcoat it or wrap it up in a bow. It’s not about finding answers, but about sitting with the questions, allowing myself to feel the full weight of this moment. It’s uncomfortable, yes, but also so very, very human. And you have no idea how often I have to remind myself that I am actually human, or how comforting it is to believe.

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