Unquiet
Things

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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It’s a July morning, a weekday at 7 am, and I’m curled up on the sofa with my coffee, lost in the pages of a book.  (Future me: I added the above image a month later. Sorry to be confusing.) The house is quiet, save for the gentle hum of the AC. I don’t have to work today – it’s the 4th of July, and my office is closed. I’m lingering leisurely, savoring the rare luxury of unhurried time, yet I presently find myself here at my desk anyway, in this familiar routine.

Today’s book is Stephen King’s If It Bleeds (not pictured above; it’s a digital version), and as I read, my mind wandered. I can’t help but notice how his writing feels increasingly tinged with a sort of nostalgic melancholia. It makes me think of when I first read IT, published in 1986, though I probably devoured it in 1987 when I was eleven. In my memory, that’s when I read everything. Back then, the kids in his books felt like real kids to me. They had outrageously horrifying adventures, of course, but their words and thoughts weren’t always dripping with reflections and portents.. were they? O…r were they? I was only a kid, too. Perhaps I didn’t observe or internalize that vibe; perhaps I couldn’t have recognized it even if I had.

I found myself glancing up from my book, taking in my surroundings. Here I am, a middle-aged person, reading on a comfortable (and not inexpensive) sofa. Morning light stipples through the lace curtains of the house I now own outright. The AC blows on my sockless feet, chilling me even in midsummer – it’s very robust; we just had a lot of duct work done! This dawn-light ritual has become so vital to my day, a cocoon of comfort I’ve carefully crafted.

But as I sit here, I can’t help feeling it doesn’t quite measure up to those vivid memories of my eleventh year. I can still see myself, a chubby preteen growing out of my clothes, sprawled on a vinyl chaise lounge on our dusty screened porch. Hour after sticky hour, I’d sit there, plowing through stacks of lurid paperbacks. Sweat trickling down my back, thighs peeling off the seat when I shifted. I’d gulp down endless icy cups of Crystal Light (the horrid red kind, probably full of now-banned dyes). It was gross and uncomfortable, and yet… I loved it fiercely. When I think back on my childhood, it’s these humid afternoons of feverish reading that stand out as some kind of high point. The kind you can’t recreate, no matter how hard you try.

I’m feeling pretty maudlin lately, and I can’t pin it all on Stephen King. I keep asking myself: as much as I enjoy my cozy morning reads, why don’t they ever quite match up to those sweaty summer afternoons? Is it because at eleven, my whole life stretched out ahead of me, full of unknowns? While now, I feel like I’ve already lived the bulk of it?

Which is ridiculous, right? I’m not even 50. There’s still plenty of road ahead.

I find myself hopeful that every phase of life has its own peculiar charm? Yes, childhood had its magic, but adulthood has its own wonders, too. The ability to create a space that nurtures my passions, the depth of understanding I bring to my reading now, the quiet satisfaction of a life built on my own terms – these are not small things. There’s something to be said for this life I’ve pieced together. It’s not nothing, is it?

I wonder if instead of trying to relive that childhood intensity, I could find a way to tap into that openness, that hunger for stories, right here in my present. There are still worlds to explore, both in these pages and beyond them.
Those memories of reading marathons in muggy, mosquito-filled Florida summers – they’re part of me. But I don’t want to get lost in them. Maybe they can serve as a reminder of why I fell in love with books in the first place. What if I could bring some of that raw enthusiasm to my reading now? What strange new territories might I stumble into? What might I learn about myself in the process?

Who’s to say the most vivid moments are all in the past? (Notice I didn’t say “the best moments,” ha! Not over here trying to say I ever had any glory days.) There could be something waiting in the next chapter, or in a random Thursday morning like this one. This might just be the pinnacle of joy I’ll be nostalgic for decades from now.

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As July unfurls its sticky, sweltering tentacles across Florida, I find myself once again at odds with summer’s exuberant cheer. For those more attuned to autumn’s melancholy or winter’s quiet introspection, this season can be… challenging, to say the least. To say the most, it’s really fucking awful.

It’s a peculiar form of reverse seasonal affective disorder if you will. While others bask on the beach and barbecues and patio pool brunches and trips to Disneyland — you absolute freaking psychos– I find myself yearning desperately for cozy layers of clothing and the rustle of falling leaves, and a more benevolent sun that can actually read the room and doesn’t hang out in the sky until 9 o’clock in the evening. And in this state of summer-induced ennui, I’ve come to a realization: I gotta get out of here.

In the spirit of self-care and creative rejuvenation, I’ve decided to step away from the digital realm for a spell. I’m embarking on a digital sabbatical for the month of July. A respite from the noise, a chance to recalibrate. In the grip of July’s oppressive heat, all those nasty social media feedback loops become a cacophony I can no longer ignore. And knowing this, I’m going to shut it down. Quite literally! Logging out of all the things.

(And yes, I realize this isn’t my first rodeo with the whole ‘social media break’ thing, and it probably won’t be my last. It’s become something of an annual tradition, hasn’t it? Like my own personal digital detox festival. I’m not pretending I’ve discovered some revolutionary concept here. It’s never easy, but I’ve found it’s good for me – a necessary reset for my overheated brain.)

So, instead of losing hours to the infinite scroll, I’ll lose myself in the pages of neglected books and the flickering frames of films long on my watch list. Maybe I’ll start knitting a shawl (or, let’s be realistic, maybe I’ll add another row to that sock I’ve been working on for the past four months.)

This isn’t goodbye, merely a brief intermission. I look forward to returning in August, hopefully refreshed, possibly vitamin D deficient, and with new stories to share. Until then, may you carve out your own shadowy refuges in this sweaty, noisy world.

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The following is something I have been thinking about for years and years.

It first started percolating back in the days when blogs were more prevalent, and I’d see lots of bloggers getting burnt out and fretting because they’d niched down to the point where they felt trapped, and they wanted to write about other things–but worried their audience wouldn’t follow. Now that blogs have been replaced by YouTube and TikToks, I see lots of baby creators asking questions like, “I want to start an account, but what if I don’t get lots of followers and no one ever comments?” Or, “I want to be an influencer but don’t know where to start!”

While I can’t speak to the “influencer” phenomenon (and would prefer they all vanish into a dark cave), I have some thoughts on authentic self-expression online.

In the ever-shifting landscape of social media, where trends tend to flicker and fade, and the FOMO is very real, it’s easy to lose sight of one’s own creative north star. Recently, a passage from Courtney Maum’s newsletter caught my eye, resonating with the quiet rebellion I’ve long harbored in my heart:

“…as long as you’re not posting hateful content, you should take the same ‘me first’ attitude to all your social media (‘me first’ as in, this is my life, my pleasure, this pleases me and brings me joy). Trends change so quickly, they’re really not worth following unless you want to be on a hamster wheel next to a dirty bowl of water your entire life.”

This resonates with how I’ve always approached my online presence. Honestly, just about every creative endeavor I embark on is in service of amusing myself. Call it selfish if you will, but when it comes to my own creative endeavors and social media sharing, I tend to put my own interests first. Being selfish with one’s creativity isn’t about ignoring the audience entirely. Rather, it’s about trusting that by being authentically oneself, one will naturally attract kindred spirits. It’s about creating a space where like-minded individuals can gather, drawn by the genuine passion that shines through every word and image.

It’s easy to get caught up in the despair cycle of likes, shares, and the endless pursuit of virality, but instead, I try my dangedest to find joy in curating my online presence as I would a secret garden. Each post, each shared thought or image, is a carefully tended plant, chosen not for its popularity but for how it resonates with my own heart, guts, and soul. It’s like planting a garden of perennials while everyone else is frantically scattering annual seeds. Sure, their blooms might be flashy, but they’re gone in a blink. (Or planting a poison garden in a graveyard while everyone else is growing daisies? This is a choose-your-own analogy adventure.) Meanwhile, your garden grows steadily, attracting those who appreciate its unique charm. And so, some may find beauty in this garden, others may pass it by without a second glance, and that’s perfectly alright. In a world where everyone’s frantically chasing the latest brightly blooming fad, there’s a quiet revolution in tending your own weird, wonderful sanctuary

For writers, creators, and sharers-of-things, this selfishness is not just a luxury – it’s a necessity. It’s the wellspring from which our most vital and engaging work flows. When we create and share from a place of genuine interest and joy, our work remains fresh, our enthusiasm infectious.

So here’s a thought: what if we treated our online spaces like a curated exhibition of our interests? Not in a pretentious way, but as a genuine reflection of what makes us tick. It might not garner millions of likes, but it could lead to more meaningful connections and a body of work that stands the test of time.

This is really just a long-winded answer to someone who asked the question I referenced up further above. The individual asked about likes and follows, as a new creator, on a bookish YouTuber’s page– and by way of response, I shared a very brief version of these thoughts over there. But I’ve been thinking about it ever since and felt compelled to expand on them. They’re never going to read this…but maybe someone will.

And I think that’s the whole point. I am not writing for everyone.  I am not even really writing for someone. I am writing for me. But if you are someone who resonates with these thoughts, who finds joy in cultivating your own unique online garden, or who simply appreciates authentic self-expression – then perhaps this was meant for you, too.

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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In that shadowy and ambiguous realm between pulpy commercial illustration and fine art, there lurks a master of the macabre whose very brushwork bleeds atmosphere. I  speak of the enigmatic Victor Kalin, an illustrator whose work adorned the covers of countless paperbacks, whispering dark promises of things that are gonna make you feel weird in the best possible way.

Kalin’s artistry beckons to those who find allure in the twilight of human experience. His cover designs, gracing numerous gothic romances and gritty detective tales, showcase a remarkable talent for capturing tension and mystique. The figures populating his compositions, especially the women, embody a fascinating paradox – simultaneously enticing and forbidding, vulnerable yet poised for action.

These characters peer out from jacket fronts with gazes that linger in the mind’s eye, from a pensive brooding mood to a countenance completely aghast, their expressions hinting at narratives far more complex than a single image should convey.  Through masterful use of color and shadow, Kalin conjures an ambiance that skirts the edge of comfort, drawing potential readers into realms where passion and peril intertwine.

What distinguishes Kalin’s craft is his knack for distilling entire plotlines into a single, arresting scene. His subjects aren’t merely decorative; they’re vital conduits for the mood and intrigue of the tales they represent. Each illustration serves as a portal, inviting onlookers to speculate about the mysteries concealed behind those cryptic smiles and penetrating stares.

And it’s not just his portrayal of the feminine that captivates. His backgrounds pulse with an almost tactile menace – gnarled trees reach out with skeletal branches, mist curls around ankles like ghostly fingers, and buildings loom with anthropomorphic malevolence. There’s a palpable sense of unease in Kalin’s work, a feeling that reality is but a thin veneer over something far more sinister. It’s this quality that elevates his illustrations from paperback art to something approaching the sublimely disturbing.

I think one of my favorite thing about Kalin’s ladies is that they bear an unsettling resemblance to those plastic paragons of mid-century femininity – Barbie. Their faces are mask-like in their perfection, with eyes that seem to say, “I’ve seen things you people wouldn’t believe.” These ladies are caught in a permanent state of “Oh no!” or “Oh yes!” – and half the fun is figuring out which. It’s as if Wednesday Addams, in a fit of delightful malice, raided her cousin’s toy chest and staged elaborate tableaux of the weird, carnal, Hammer Horror variety.

It’s this juxtaposition – the wholesome, all-American doll-woman thrust into scenes of Gothic horror – that gives Kalin’s work its frisson of unease. It’s a subversion of the suburban ideal, a glimpse of the rot beneath the perfect lawn. One can almost hear Wednesday’s deadpan voice: “This is Barbie. Barbie has just realized her dream house is built on an ancient burial ground. Run, Barbie, run.”

This unsettling blend of the banal and the bizarre, the plastic and the phantasmagorical, endears this artist to me enormously.

Or…picture, if you will, this fever dream of 1950s domesticity gone delightfully wonky. Our housewife, a vision of mid-century perfection with her coiffed curls and strands of pearls, gazes down at her cupped palms with an expression of serene bewilderment. There, purring contentedly beneath her manicured scarlet fingers, is a kitten that looks as though it’s been rolling around in the most lurid shade of shocking candy pink paint imaginable.

Is this feline anomaly the result of some clandestine government experiment, a Cold War attempt at weaponized cuteness? Or has the tranced-out houswife imbibed a bit too much of that “special” punch at the bridge club, resulting in a technicolor hallucination? One can’t help but wonder if this image isn’t a sly commentary on the artificiality of the American Dream – the pink kitten a garish intruder exposing the hollowness of picture-perfect suburbia. Or perhaps it’s simply evidence that even the masters of the macabre occasionally need to indulge in a bit of psychedelic silliness.

The genius of this piece lies in its stubborn refusal to explain itself. It’s a riddle wrapped in an enigma, frosted with a layer of cotton candy creepy-quirkyness. I like to think that Kalin is reminding us that even in the midst of whips and skulls and gothic castles and feeling weird ways low in your innards about all of it,  there’s always room for a touch of the absurd.

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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It’s been a while since I’ve done one of these little life updates, and as we’re sliding past midsummer, it felt like the right time to share some thoughts and recommendations with you all.

It was almost a year ago that I learned of my father’s passing. It was complicated. But whomst among us doesn’t have a complicated relationship with a relative? Both of my parents were complicated situations for me. My father and I hadn’t spoken in two decades, but his influence on my younger self during one pivotal summer in Houston still echoes through my life in unexpected ways. From word games that sparked my love for language to a treasure trove of Heavy Metal magazines that forever altered my perception of art and storytelling, those memories have become a strange sort of inheritance.

As this anniversary approaches, I’ve found myself seeking comfort in the small rituals of everyday life – tending to my garden, discovering new scents, and losing myself in music. It’s funny how the things we surround ourselves with can become anchors in turbulent times, isn’t it?

So, I thought I’d share some of these anchors with you today. A bit of this, a dash of that – the odds and ends that have been keeping me grounded and inspired lately. Consider it a belated midsummer offering of sorts, from my strange little world to yours.

SUNFLOWERS

I’ve got a bit of a confession to make – and it might surprise you! Despite my love for all things dark and spooky, my absolute favorite flower is… the sunflower. Not very on-brand for someone who writes about gothic literature and horror, and dark fashion, I know, I know. And I know you know. I struggle with this disparity a lot, and it spills over into this blog quite frequently.

There’s something undeniably magical about these towering golden giants, these brazen yellow blooms, their faces turned unabashedly towards the light. They’re like nature’s own version of a Rorschach test – to some, they might represent pure, unadulterated joy. To others, they’re a reminder of the delicious contrast between light and dark, a symbol of life’s stubborn persistence in the face of entropy.

Plus, let’s not forget their slightly creepy ability to track the sun across the sky. It’s like they’re a botanical army of solar-powered sentinels, always watching, always turning. Sorry, had to make it weird. So there you have it, friends. My not-so-dark secret is out. Anyone else out there have any unexpected favorites that don’t quite fit their usual aesthetic?

TWO INGREDIENT BAGELS

So: two-ingredient bagels.  No, no, no, I have not joined the ranks of the protein-obsessed gym rats or the preservative-phobic crowd, nothing like that. Sometimes you just want a bagel. Not those sad, freezer-burned discs masquerading as bagels from the grocery store. And definitely not the overpriced, underwhelming attempts at bagels that Florida tries to pass off as the real deal. Sorry, Florida (Bagel) Man, but you’re no Local New Jersey (Bagel) Man when it comes to bagels. And sure, I could spend hours crafting an authentic, complicated bagel recipe. But sometimes, you want a bagel without feeling like you’re auditioning for a baking show.

Enter the two-ingredient bagel: just flour and Greek yogurt. And seasonings and toppings, so it is not technically two ingredients, I suppose. It’s not terrible! It’s not going to win any awards in New York, but when the bagel craving hits, and your options are limited, it’s a surprisingly satisfying solution. I make extra to slice and freeze, and it’s a nice treat when you find a bagel buried at the bottom of the freezer underneath the frozen peas and the dubious pork chops!

I DON’T BELIEVE IN SEASONAL FRAGRANCES, BUT I DO BELIEVE IN SUMMER PERFUMES

I’ve always scoffed at the notion of seasonal fragrances. I wear what I want when I want! You can’t tell me nothin! Resinous incense and mossy stone castles and suffocating spices year round, please!

…Yet here I am, a prisoner of the merciless Florida hellscape, finding myself yearning for fragrances that offer respite from the relentless heat.

It’s not so much about capturing a bottled atmosphere as it is about survival. Those earthy autumnal and woodsy winter perfumes that once brought such cozy comfort and delicious decadence now feel like a weighted blanket in this sweltering humidity. They cling, they smother, they overwhelm – much like the soupy miasma of these endless summer days.

Instead, I find myself drawn to the ephemeral and the ethereal. I reach for scents that evaporate almost as quickly as they’re applied, leaving behind only the ghost of a proper perfuming. Fizzy floral effervescence, a fleeting joy in the sticky air. Crisp, soapy musks offer the illusion of a fresh start, even as the humidity threatens to undo their work. Citrus and ginger provide zingy, zippy zhuzh, their bright notes cutting through the muggy haze. And those elusive spa-like fragrances – all gauzy lavender threads and misty eucalyptus veils – conjure a spectral coolness that’s more memory than matter.

These aren’t summer scents in the traditional sense, with their sunscreen notes and tropical fruit medleys. They’re more like… olfactory air conditioning. These subtle, refreshing fragrances I once overlooked now feel like small mercies, in a season that shows no mercy.

Elizabeth W. Té smells like a gorgeous glass of Southern sweet tea

Eris Parfums Green Spell smells like a mossy malachite pennywort nightmare angel

Initio Musk Therapy is an Abercrombie & Witch spell of hot people smelling hot (thanks to @eaumg for most of that description.)

Origins Ginger Essence smells like how the chorus in June Hymn by The Decemberists makes me feel

Blue Quartz from HauteMacabre x Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab is a gentle summer lullaby of coconut milk, sandalwood, and lavender

Jones Road Shower is good mostly because it reminds me of BPAL’s discontinued Danube, which smells like sinking to the bottom of the coldest, bluest swimming pool on the hottest day of the year, and seeing the sun’s glimmer wavering through the rippling water and thinking ha ha ha, screw you, sun.

Kyoto from Comme des Garçons is actually my all-time favorite, number one, anytime, anyplace scent. It’s the scent everything has to measure up to, and so far, nothing has ever surpassed it. It smells like a cool shadowy prayer in a dark forest temple, and it is especially nice on brutal summer nights.

LOUDERMILK, LISSIE, MOTHER, CHEESDUST

I recently traveled to Philly, where I spent a much-needed long weekend with my Best Good Friend. We, of course, did some urban exploration and perfume shopping and conveyor belt sushiing and some long drives in the countryside, and, weirdly enough, a surprise visit to Warby Parker for very gleefully ridiculous new glasses! (Ývan thinks I look like this guy in my new specs, but everyone else is pointing to her.) But the best part was just vegging out together, doing nothing. We basically barricaded ourselves in their living room for a solid 24 hours, binging the entire season of Loudermilk, decimating an unholy amount of Herr’s jalapeño popper cheese puffs in the process. My fingers are probably still slightly orange.

A blonde musician showed up in one of the later episodes, and it hit me: isn’t that the singer from the 2017 Twin Peaks: The Return? Isn’t that Lissie?! I was obsessed with that Wild West song, and then I was obsessed with her PERFECT cover of Danzig’s “Mother” forever, and now, thanks to this show about the misadventures of misfits in AA, I’m equally fixated on her song “When I’m Alone.” And also the beautiful kimono she is wearing in that scene!

The funny thing is, it’s over a decade old at this point. Isn’t it weird how you can re/discover music like that? One minute, you’re stuffing your face with cheesy puffs; the next, you’re having a moment with a song from 2011 that you never knew you missed out on way back when, but now you love it like you’ve loved it forever.

Anyway, I’ve been playing Lissie non-stop since I got back. It’s like my brain is trying to recreate that perfect moment of kinship, junk food, and unexpectedly poignant television.

REVISITING MY STEPHEN KING PROJECT

In early 2020, the world is still blissfully unaware of what’s coming, and I am armed with a Google Docs spreadsheet and a mission. The goal? To immerse myself in the Stephen King universe – reading the unread, re-experiencing the familiar through audiobooks, and diving into television and film adaptations I’d somehow missed.

For 80s horror kids, he was practically a god. The master of terror, the guy who could make a clown in a storm drain or a voice in a closet the stuff of lifelong nightmares. But if I am being thoroughly, painfully honest – as an adult, reading him can sometimes feel like listening to your out-of-touch dad try to be “hip.” You love him, but occasionally, you just want to gently suggest he stop talking before he says something so embarrassing you could die.

That said, there’s still this undeniable magic to his work. It’s comfort food for the horror soul. When he eventually shuffles off this mortal coil, I’ll be devastated. More upset than when my own father passed. Stephen King’s been more of a constant presence in my life, for better or worse.

Anyway, I’ve been picking up the threads of this project lately, diving into the Mr. Mercedes books and related stories. It’s been… interesting. There’s still that undeniable King charm, the way he builds a world and populates it with characters that feel both wonderfully and uncomfortably real. I’ve always loved the way he writes the relationships–the interactions, the dialogue, the bonds– between siblings, for example. I first read IT thirty-seven summers ago, but I still get shivers when I think of Bill and Georgie Denbrough. But there are also moments where I find myself thinking, “Oh, Stephen King,  no…! When was the last time you talked to a 44-year-old woman? And have you EVER spoken with a Black teenager??”

So that’s where I’m at with the project right now. Detecting with Bill Hodges, solving crimes with Holly Gibney, and watching Stephen King try to navigate the modern world with varying degrees of success. It’s a strange experience, this literary time travel. Part nostalgic joy, part critical assessment, all wrapped up in the complicated emotions of revisiting a childhood hero with adult eyes.

As I sit here, writing these words, I’m acutely aware of the passage of time. It’s been a year since I learned of my father’s passing, a man I barely knew yet whose influence echoes through my life in unexpected ways. The games we played then shape the words I write now. The Heavy Metal magazines I pored over still influence my aesthetic sensibilities. And that tiny bird I cradled during the Harmonica Convention? Perhaps it was the first stirring of the caretaker in me, the same part that now tends to sunflowers and crafts imperfect bagels. Maybe that’s a stretch. Maybe I just like flowers and bread.

(Totally unrelated–I also like creepy antique dolls. The one above was a birthday gift to myself last month.)

As I navigate this midsummer, with its oppressive Florida heat and the bittersweet onslaught of memories, I find myself grateful for the small joys: the scent of lemon and ginger on my skin, the cackles shared over junk food and trash television, the rediscovery of a singer-songwriter that speaks to my soul. It’s funny, isn’t it? How life can be simultaneously mundane and profound, filled with both small pleasures and big questions. I’m learning that it’s okay to contradict myself sometimes, whether it’s in my fragrance choices or my relationship with authors I’ve loved since childhood.

As we head deeper into the feverish, overheated, and everlasting days, I’m looking forward to more unexpected discoveries. And Halloween! Always that.  Summer can fuck right off straight into the sun.

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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