Unquiet
Things

Part I.

I was a little girl with a penchant for all things that bloomed, sparkled, or glittered. But for all my love of bold baubles and blooms, I was a timid soul, scared of her own shadow and just about everything else that crossed her path.

In those early days, the world seemed divided into two camps: the pretty things that delighted me, and the ugly, scary, angry, loud things that sent me scurrying for cover. And oh, what a rogues’ gallery of terrors awaited my trembling psyche! There was Lou Ferrigno’s horrific green grimace as the Incredible Hulk, looking like he’d eaten something that violently disagreed with him. My cousin’s KISS posters leered at me from her bedroom walls, their feral, alien visages promising a world of chaos that my fairytale flower garden-loving heart wasn’t prepared for. Helicopters, motorcycles, Scooby Doo Draculas, George Harrison in Love At First Bite — you name it, it made me cry.

As I grew older, though, something strange began to happen. That heart-pounding panic and fright regarding bloodsuckers and monsters from outer space began to give way to an inexplicable curiosity. It was as if the fear and fascination wires got mixed up in my brain. Suddenly, instead of hiding my face behind a pillow when something scary flickered across the TV screen, I felt an itchy urge to peek. This fascination with fearsome things lurking in the darkness slowly turned into an obsession. I found myself voraciously consuming every form of frightening or unsettling media I encountered. Literature, film, music, art – if it possessed an aura of the unearthly or strange, if it whispered of the ghastly or ghostly, if it dared to explore the gruesome or grotesque, I was irresistibly drawn to it. Like a scholar of the sinister – or more accurately, a C-student of the supernatural, because even with my most passionate interests, I’ve never aspired to become an expert or guru – I immersed myself in these dark waters. Each new discovery was a key to another door in the sprawling, shadowy mansion of horror, rooms I’d wander through with equal parts trepidation and delight.

My burgeoning fascination with the macabre found fertile ground in my unconventional home environment. My mother’s boyfriend at the time, perhaps sensing a kindred spirit in the weird, nurtured these budding interests with a steady diet of horror movies and cheap weird fiction paperbacks. These books, with their spectacularly deranged cover art that would probably be banned in several states today (I’m pretty sure some violated the Geneva Convention), became my first proper forays into the world of horror literature.

But it wasn’t just fiction that fed my growing appetite for the uncanny. My mother was an astrologer, a tarot reader, and a dabbler in an assortment of arcane practices. She was, for all intents and purposes, a witch, though I never heard her call herself that. Our home was a testament to her esoteric pursuits, a place where the mystical was as commonplace as morning coffee. Tarot cards were tucked into every nook and cranny, as if she were the Madame Fortuna of squirrels preparing for a psychic winter. Mysterious artworks adorned every wall, transforming our house into a veritable gallery of the weird and wonderful. Fabulous posters of Erté’s dramatic Art Deco fashions hung alongside large-scale reproductions of Lady Frieda Harris’ Thoth tarot paintings. I would lose whole afternoons gazing at these images, my imagination stepping into them, getting lost in their swirling colors and intricate designs. It was as if we had portals to other worlds right there on our living room walls, each frame a window to realms both beautiful and bizarre.

This immersive environment, rich with symbolism and the promise of hidden meanings, undoubtedly shaped my evolving taste in horror. As I matured, the simple scares of childhood gave way to more complex terrors. I found myself drawn deeper into the labyrinthine world of horror literature, discovering authors who could articulate the nameless fears and existential dread that had begun to take root in my psyche. Edgar Allan Poe’s psychological depths resonated with my burgeoning understanding of human nature, his stories of guilt, madness, and the thin veil between life and death echoing the complexities I was beginning to perceive in the world around me. H.P. Lovecraft’s cosmic horror, despite the author’s problematic views, laid a foundation of existential dread that fascinated me. However, it was the contemporary writers who truly captured my imagination. These authors took Lovecraft’s concepts of cosmic horror and paranoia and rebuilt them, infusing them with diverse perspectives and experiences that reflected the world I knew. In their works, I found a horror that was at once more inclusive and more expansive, speaking to fears both ancient and modern.

I reveled in the gothic romance of Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House, where whatever walked there, walked alone. Stephen King’s sprawling universes and his characters, who feel like old friends, enchant me to this day. Clive Barker’s Books of Blood opened my eyes to the strange beauty that can be found in the grotesque. I delved into the works of classic British ghost storywriters, finding a different kind of terror in their subtle, atmospheric tales. M.R. James, with his scholarly protagonists and ancient curses, taught me the power of suggestion and the horror of the unseen. Algernon Blackwood’s cosmic wilderness horror showed me how nature itself could be a source of terror, vast and indifferent to human concerns.

But.  While I may have grown out of hiding behind the sofa during Scooby-Doo, I never quite outgrew my anxious nature. As a child, I was the kid who needed coaxing to join in games at birthday parties. As an adult, I’m the one who needs coaxing to attend the birthday party at all. Anxiety has been my constant companion, an uninvited guest who crashes every party in my mind.

But here’s the fun twist in this tale of terror: horror, in all its gruesome glory, has become my unlikely ally in facing these fears. It’s as if by immersing myself in fictional frights, I can better manage the real-world anxieties that threaten to overwhelm me. There’s a certain logic to it, I suppose. When you’re worried about tentacled monstrosities from beyond the stars or shambling zombies crawling through your windows, somehow mustering up the nerve to call the insurance company or make a request to your boss doesn’t seem all that daunting.

Horror provides a controlled environment where I can face my fears on my own terms. In my daily life, anxiety can strike at any moment, triggered by the most mundane of circumstances. My mind, ever eager to catastrophize, can spiral into worst-case scenarios faster than you can say …well…something creepy in Latin from a real gnarly book that you definitely should have left alone. But in horror – whether in books, films, or art – the monsters are contained. They exist within defined boundaries, and there’s usually a resolution, even if it’s not always a happy one. It’s like exposure therapy, but with more fake blood and crappy reboots, and fewer copays.

Moreover, horror often deals with outsiders, with those who don’t quite fit in. As someone who has always felt a bit out of step with the world due to my shyness and anxiety, I find a strange kinship with the misunderstood monsters and troubled protagonists of horror stories. Their struggles, albeit exaggerated and supernatural, sometimes feel like funhouse mirror reflections of my own.

There’s also something to be said for the catharsis that horror provides. When I engage with horror, my anxiety has a focus, a concrete outlet. Instead of worrying about nebulous future possibilities, I can channel that nervous energy into the immediate experience of the story. And when the book is closed or the credits roll, there’s often a sense of release, of having survived something intense – a feeling that can be hard to come by when dealing with the chronic, low-level anxiety of everyday life.

Horror, I have come to realize, is more than just a genre – it was a lens through which to view the world, a palette with which to paint the full spectrum of human experience. It offered a canvas to confront our deepest fears, to explore the shadows of the human psyche, and to grapple with the unknown. In a world that often demands relentless positivity, horror provides a necessary counterbalance, an emotional chiaroscuro, acknowledging the darkness that exists alongside the light, an interplay that gives depth and dimension to our understanding of life.

This fascination with the darker aspects of existence led me to curate and create The Art of Darkness, a treasury of the morbid, melancholic, and macabre in visual art. In this book, I explored how we all experience darkness, and why it’s crucial to embrace it. We can’t avoid it, and I don’t think we should. If we’re eternally trying to live in the light where it’s always bright and happy, where we ignore or evade our distressing, uncomfortable feelings, then we are starved of shadows, of nuance, and risk an existence robbed of the richness of contrast. When we only validate our positive feelings, we vastly restrict our tools for looking at the world. We are neither dealing with reality as it is nor adequately readying ourselves for the random pains and struggles that life has in store for us. It’s like trying to paint a masterpiece using only the brighter end of the color spectrum – you might create something cheerful, but you’ll miss out on the depth and complexity that the full palette of human experience offers.

This exploration of the darker side of art opened up new avenues of sensory experience for me. Just as a Goya painting or a Louise Bourgeois sculpture can evoke visceral reactions through visual means, I discovered another form of art that could stir the senses in equally profound ways – but through an often-overlooked medium. This invisible art form would become my next obsession, leading me down a fragrant path of discovery and self-expression.

Part II

In the experiential realm of human senses, scent often gets overlooked, relegated to the background behind the more immediate impressions of sight and sound. But for me, the olfactory world has always been front and center,  a vivid, visceral presence that perfumes my perception of everything around me. It’s not just a sense; it’s a vital conduit to memory, emotion, and imagination.

I can trace this fascination back to my childhood, to stolen moments in front of my mother’s vanity. The mirrored tray, cluttered with an array of gleaming bottles, was a forbidden wonderland that beckoned to me with an almost otherworldly magnetism. Each bottle held not just a fragrance, but a world of possibilities, a story waiting to be told. Despite stern warnings to leave them be, I couldn’t resist. In moments of daring defiance, I would embark on olfactory adventures, spritzing and spraying with reckless abandon, creating my own fantastical, if somewhat chaotic, perfume compositions. These clandestine experiments, always followed by unconvincing denials (as if the lingering cloud of scent didn’t give me away), were my first steps into the world of fragrance. Little did I know that those illicit spritzes were planting olfactory time bombs in my psyche, set to detonate years later in explosions of creative inspiration. This innocent fascination would ferment in the dark corners of my mind, brewing a potent elixir of perception-altering potential. Like a haunted perfume, it would trail me through life, leaving an invisible sillage that reshaped my reality.

As I grew older, my love for perfume deepened, intertwining with my other passions – literature, art, and storytelling. My tastes evolved dramatically; the sweet vanilla cake and marshmallow fluff-scented gourmands that marked my initial aromatic dabbling gave way to an appreciation for the dry, the bitter, the verdant, and the resinous. I found myself drawn to the complexities of vetiver, the smoky allure of incense, the sharp green of galbanum, and the mysterious depth of oakmoss.

This olfactory journey took an exceptionally exciting turn when I discovered there was a world of fragrance beyond the drugstore and department store counters. I stumbled upon independent perfumers crafting wild, weird, and wonderful scents that I never imagined could exist. I will forever blame (and bless) Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab for this Pandora’s box of alternative options, this irrevocable initiation into a hidden world of olfactory marvels. In the marking of my life in time before/after A Thing–I can say with utter conviction that my life has never been the same since I discovered BPAL; it offered me knowledge of things that I can never again un-know. And naturally, it was around this time that I began to see fragrances not just as pleasant scents but as narratives in their own right, invisible paintings that unfold over time on the canvas of skin and air. Each spritz became the opening line of a story, each waft a brushstroke in an unseen masterpiece. The development of perfume from top notes to base became a plot unfolding, revealing new facets and twists with each passing hour.

This perspective has guided my approach to writing about perfume for over a decade now. I’m not a chemist dissecting molecular structures, nor am I a seasoned industry insider with decades of experience. Instead, I’m a storyteller, an art enthusiast who happens to work in the medium of scent. My goal isn’t to provide technical breakdowns or expert analysis, but to capture the emotional journey that a fragrance takes you on, to translate the wordless poetry of scent into something tangible and relatable.

When I encounter a new perfume, I don’t just smell it – I experience it. I let it transport me to the arid deserts of a planet with binary moons or snowy moonlit forests where witches dwell in their chicken-legged huts, to the bombastic spice of bustling bazaars or quiet papery riffle of near-empty libraries. I listen to the stories it tells, the memories it evokes, the emotions it stirs. And then, I try to put all of that into words, to share that experience with others who might find beauty and meaning in bottled dreams.

This approach, born out of pure passion rather than professional expertise, has its own unique value. It offers a perspective that’s closer to that of the average perfume lover, unburdened by industry jargon or technical minutiae. It’s an invitation to engage with perfume on a more emotional and imaginative level, to see it as more than just a pleasant smell, but as a form of artistic expression accessible to everyone.

In my writing, I often draw connections between perfumes and other art forms. A fragrance might remind me of a particular painting, its notes unfolding like brushstrokes on canvas. Another might evoke a piece of music, its composition a symphony of scents. And many, of course, call to mind literary passages, their olfactory narratives as rich and complex as any written story.
This interdisciplinary approach reflects my belief that perfume is part of a larger conversation about aesthetics, emotion, and sensory experiences. It’s not isolated from other forms of art but exists in constant dialogue with them, each medium informing and enriching the others in an ongoing exchange of ideas and sensations.

My journey with perfume has been one of continuous self-discovery. Each fragrance I’ve fallen in love with has taught me something about myself, my perceptions, my memories, and my desires. It’s been a journey of exploration, not expertise – I’m still learning, still discovering, still being surprised and delighted by new scents and experiences.

And you know what? That’s okay. More than okay, actually – it’s wonderful. There was a time when I felt inadequate for not being an “expert,” for not having studied under master perfumers or created my own fragrances. I looked at those who had dedicated their lives to perfumery with a mixture of admiration and envy, wondering if my passion was somehow less valid because it wasn’t my sole focus.

But over time, I’ve come to accept that you don’t need to know everything about something to love it deeply and authentically. You don’t need to be a Michelin-starred chef to appreciate good food or a classical composer to be moved by music. And you certainly don’t need to be a master perfumer to find joy, meaning, and beauty in fragrance.

This acceptance has been incredibly liberating. It’s allowed me to embrace my role as an enthusiastic audience member, a passionate amateur in the truest sense of the word. I may never create my own perfume or run a fragrance house, but I can appreciate, celebrate, and share the art that others create. I can be a translator of sorts, putting into words the wordless experiences that perfumes create, helping others to engage with and appreciate this often-overlooked art form.

In fact, I’ve come to believe that there’s real value in this kind of enthusiastic, non-expert appreciation. It makes the world of perfume more accessible, more welcoming to those who might be intimidated by more technical or insider-focused discussions. It encourages people to trust their own experiences and perceptions, to engage with perfume on a personal, emotional level rather than worrying about whether they’re smelling the “right” notes or using the “correct” terminology.

This doesn’t mean I’ve stopped learning or exploring. Far from it! I’m constantly discovering new things about perfume, diving into its history, its cultural significance, its connections to other art forms and disciplines. But I do so as a curious explorer, not as someone striving to become the ultimate authority. For me, each new scent is an invitation to wander through olfactory landscapes, to uncover hidden narratives wafting from each bottle, to indulge in a fragrant feast. I don’t need to be an expert or a guru; I’m just here for the sensory buffet. But now we’re getting into cooking and food…and that’s an origin story for a different time!

Part III 

Last month as I prepared to be a guest on an upcoming podcast, I found myself thinking of how the worlds of horror and perfume might seem diametrically opposed at first glance – one reveling in the grotesque and terrifying, the other celebrating beauty and pleasure. But in my experience, they’re more closely linked than one might expect, each offering a unique lens through which to explore the depths of human experience and emotion.

At their core, both horror and perfume are about evoking visceral reactions. One does it through fear, the other through scent – but both bypass our logical brain to trigger something primal within us. They speak directly to our subconscious, stirring emotions and memories that we might not even be aware of harboring.

Just as a well-crafted horror story can transport you to another world, so too can a carefully composed perfume. With a single spritz or a turn of the page, you can find yourself locked in an ancient crypt, adrift at sea on a ghost ship, or wandering the halls of a decaying mansion. Both have the power to conjure memories, emotions, and atmospheres in an instant, pulling you into a fully realized experience that engages all your senses.

There’s an intimacy to both horror and perfume that I find utterly captivating. They get under your skin, they linger, they transform your perception of the world around you. A haunting story can leave you looking over your shoulder for days, while a compelling fragrance can change how you perceive yourself and others. Both have the power to alter your reality, if only for a moment.

In both horror and perfume, there’s a fascinating preoccupation with decay and the passage of time. Think of those classic dark, gothic notes in perfumery – leather, incense, dark woods. They’re not just scents; they’re storytellers, weaving tales of abandoned monasteries, moonlit séances, forgotten rituals, and long-buried secrets. Similarly, horror often deals with themes of aging, death, and the inevitability of time’s march. Both invite us to confront our own mortality and find beauty in the ephemeral nature of existence.

Creating a perfume, I imagine, is not unlike crafting a horror story. You’re building tension, creating contrast, leading the audience through a carefully orchestrated experience. A perfumer, like a skilled horror writer, knows how to build anticipation, when to reveal a shocking twist, and how to leave a lasting impression. The nose, like the mind, can be led down dark and twisting paths, encountering surprises and revelations along the way.

In my perfume collection, you’ll find scents that could easily belong in a horror story: the metallic tang of blood, the damp earth of a freshly dug grave, the acrid smoke of smoldering ruins, or the otherworldly aroma of strange, alien flowers. These fragrances tell visceral and evocative stories, inviting the wearer to step into worlds both familiar and unknown. They complement the more traditional scents in my collection, each offering a unique olfactory journey and expanding the emotional palette of perfumery.

Ultimately, my love for both horror and perfume stems from the same place: a fascination with the full spectrum of human experience, from the sublimely beautiful to the hauntingly macabre. Both allow me to explore different facets of existence, to step into other worlds and other skins, if only for a moment. Whether I’m lost in a chilling tale or enveloped in an evocative scent, I’m chasing the same thrill – the excitement of discovery, the brush with the unknown, the expansion of my own perception.

About the artwork in this blog post: In a serendipitous twist of fate, I recently stumbled upon the haunting artwork of Masha Gusova. I thought that her pieces, which blend historical imagery with contemporary narratives to explore the human condition, resonated deeply with the themes of this essay. Like a perfectly composed perfume or a masterfully crafted horror story, Gusova’s art invites introspection and evokes visceral emotions, making it a natural visual companion to our journey through shadows and scents.

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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Horror Movie by Paul Tremblay is an intricately meta exploration of film culture and memory, centered around a never-completed student film that inexplicably gains cult status Tremblay nails the sweet spot between spooky urban legend vibes and the nitty-gritty of indie filmmaking, all while poking at the weirdness of memory and perception. His take on fan culture – think horror cons and “cursed” film lore – feels spot-on, asking some uncomfortable questions about fame, tragedy as commodity, and the often messed-up relationship between creators and fans. All this to say…it took me a long time to finally fall into the rhythm of this story, and by the time I did–it was over! And speaking of the finale: while the ending may prove divisive, it’s very quintessential Tremblay – challenging and thought-provoking. Ultimate, this book was trying to do some really interesting things, and I recognize and admire that, but at the end of the day, something was missing for me, something vague–but somehow important when it comes to how satisfying a story is–that I can’t quite put my finger on or articulate, but I know when it’s not there. This too I find is part of the classic Tremblay experience.

American Rapture by CJ Leedes  At its core, this is Sophie’s story. And if you have read and enjoyed Leede’s Maeve Fly, just now you are in for a wildly different protagonist with Sophie. She’s a 16-year-old Catholic girl who’s been sheltered her whole life, and suddenly she’s thrust into a world that’s literally going to hell. There’s a virus turning people into lust-crazed maniacs (kind of like Crossed if anyone recalls and/or will admit familiarity with that series), and Sophie’s got to navigate this nightmare while questioning everything she’s ever been taught. Leede doesn’t pull any punches here. The violence is brutal, the sexual content is intense, and the religious themes are going to make some folks uncomfortable. But that’s the point. This book wants you to squirm, to think, to feel. What really works is how personal it all feels. You’re right there with Sophie as she’s figuring things out, making mistakes, and growing up way too fast. It’s messy and raw and sometimes beautiful in the most horrific ways. The side characters add a lot to the story too. There’s this whole “found family” vibe that gives you something to root for amidst all the chaos. As a warning, there is an incredibly awful animal death in these pages, and, in the afterward, the author explains a bit of why that is. Personally, I get it. I didn’t like to read about it. But I *get* it. Leede’s taken the apocalyptic genre and injected it with a dose of coming-of-age drama and religious introspection. It’s not always an easy read, but it’s definitely a memorable one.

blud by Rachel McKibbens is a book of poetry I read, and I find it a bit difficult or even sum up poetry collections, so I will just say this: I don’t think I have ever experienced a book of poetry where I have casually relating to it up to a point, or at least enjoying the language enough to keep me reading, and then WAM. Suddenly a poem grabs me by the throat, strips me to my deepest pain, and doesn’t stop there; it digs the heart from my chest in one swift yank and sucks the marrow from my bones in a single swallow. The poem’s title is  * * * (I think? I am not sure.) and begins on page 48, but you need to work your way up to it. As a matter of fact, forget you’ve read this. Just remember what it’s like to love someone–all of the someones, the worst and the best of them– and stumble upon this poem one day, unbidden, your heart unguarded, all your defenses down. You will be destroyed, and it will feel exquisite.

The Unmothers by Leslie J. Anderson offers a compelling blend of folk horror and mystery set in the isolated town of Raeford. The story follows Marshall, a grief-stricken journalist tasked with investigating an impossible claim: a horse giving birth to a human child. What begins as a seemingly absurd assignment quickly unravels into a dark exploration of small-town secrets and generational trauma. In crafting Raeford, Anderson creates a palpable sense of unease. The fog-shrouded landscape becomes a character in itself, its oppressive atmosphere mirroring the weight of the town inhabitants’ unspoken burdens. This eerie setting serves as the perfect backdrop for the novel’s deeper themes, including bodily autonomy and the unique challenges women face in rural communities. Anderson tackles these complex issues with sensitivity and nuance, skillfully grounding her supernatural tale in very real, contemporary concerns. Despite the story’s bizarre premise, the characters feel remarkably authentic and their struggles and motivations resonate deeply, lending an added impact to the horror elements woven throughout the narrative. As the story progresses, the pervasive fog of Raeford seems to seep into the narrative itself. While this contributes to the overall atmosphere, it occasionally makes the plot feel hazy, particularly in the final act. However, even though it contributed a bit of befuddlement to the story, this minor issue doesn’t significantly diminish the book’s overall impact. I hesitate to slot “The Unmothers” into any single category; while it could be described as “horror for horse girls,” this label doesn’t do justice to the breadth of Anderson’s vision. Instead, it’s a thought-provoking tale that will appeal to anyone drawn to stories of small-town mysteries and the often unsettling nature of human relationships.

A Sunny Place for Shady People by Mariana Enriquez In A Sunny Place for Shady People, Mariana Enriquez crafts narratives that blur the lines between reality and the fantastic, channeling a sort of raw, punk-infused literary version of say, kooky dreamer Remedios Varo’s bizarre surrealist visions. But where Varo’s paintings offer enigmatic, haunting cosmological qualities, Enriquez’s stories present a more visceral, earthier, street-level take on the surreal. The characters often come across as emotionally distant, and this coolness amplifies the otherworldly atmosphere throughout the collection. It’s as if they’re slightly removed from their bizarre circumstances, mirroring our own sense of disorientation as readers. Enriquez’s prose is sharp and unflinching, describing surreal and often disturbing scenarios with a matter-of-fact tone that packs a punch. From urban ghosts to body horror that defies explanation, each story pushes our imagination to its limits, much like Varo’s paintings, but with an edgy, contemporary twist. The characters’ emotional distance might not be everyone’s cup of tea, but it’s this very quality that allows Enriquez to dig into deeper themes of societal dysfunction, historical trauma, and personal alienation. The surreal elements aren’t just for show – they’re powerful metaphors for the often inexplicable nature of human experience. A Sunny Place for Shady People isn’t a cozy read, but it’s definitely a compelling one.

If It Bleeds by Stephen King King’s latest novella collection includes four stories: “Mr. Harrigan’s Phone,” “The Life of Chuck,” “Rat,” and the titular “If It Bleeds.” While each tale showcases King’s knack for blending the supernatural with the everyday, “Rat” particularly intrigued me. Its exploration of a writer’s struggle had me wondering: how many of King’s stories are responses to queries he’s put to himself? The titular novella, featuring the recurring character Holly Gibney, is one I wish I had read before Holly’s standalone book, but oh well. A note I made to myself while reading: throughout the book, references to things like landlines (which I remember) and party lines (which was before my time) reminded me of King’s long career, making me ponder how younger readers than I might interpret these technological time markers.

Antenora by Dori Lumpkin Set in the suffocating religious snake-handling community of Bethel, Alabama, this novella dives deep into the murky waters of repressed sexuality, religious dogma, and possible possession. Lumpkin’s writing is a Southern Gothic dream, weaving a tale of two girls, Nora and Abigail, whose affection and loyalty to each other becomes a threat to their entire town. The story of Nora’s “possession” unfolds through Abigail’s eyes, a bittersweet confessional that’ll have you squirming in your seat, clenching your fists, and breaking your heart. At its core, “Antenora” is a queer love story, exploring the complexities of friendship, desire, and faith in a way that feels achingly, desperately real, and while it delivers some deliciously gruesome scenes, the real horror here is in the oppressive atmosphere of the small town and its smaller-minded inhabitants. It’s a short but potent read that’ll leave you yearning for more of Lumpkin’s poignantly twisted prose.

Psychedelica Satanica by Sybil Oxblood Pope What a gem! I went into this one with zero expectations and came out thoroughly entertained. This oddball romp follows dark-arts dabbling sisters Jerica and Pen as they dive into some extremely demonic magic, but somehow, the story never feels too heavy. Pope’s writing strikes this weird balance where, despite the menacing threats of infernal forces and sometimes very human violence, it’s wrapped in a layer of absurdity that keeps things from getting too intense. The absolute star of the show is Vinegar Bill, a sassy, snarky demon-goat who steals every scene he is in. Fair warning: Vinegar Bill hates housepets, so you’re absolutely going to see this book listed eventually on doesthedogdie.com. And despite the (somewhat) light-hearted tone, don’t expect a happy ending – this isn’t that kind of story. But if you’re in the mood for a surprisingly fun ride through some dark territory full of snappy dialogue and sisterly shenanigans, “Psychedelic Satanica” delivers a very good time. It’s like a B-movie horror flick in book form – gory, ridiculous, and weirdly enjoyable.

The Coiled Serpent by Camilla Grudova Ooooof. I loved Children of Paradise, (so much that it influenced a whole perfume review!) which definitely did have a bit of a crusty aspect to it, but I am not sure how I feel about these stories, which shoot way past crusty into the territory of the grotesque and the disgustingly visceral. A provocative collection of short stories that blends surrealism, body horror, and social commentary, The Coiled Serpent is an incredibly unsettling reading experience in the form of experimental fiction (?) satire of the Great British institutions. I only know this because I read a Guardian article which clued me into that bit. Until that point, I thought I was just reading a series of gross, surreal stories. Now I feel like an idiot. In Grudova’s distinct style of writing that is sharp, witty, and unapologetically transgressive, these stories explore themes of class struggle, capitalism, and gender issues, often alongside repulsive imagery and the nastiness of bodily functions. Her matter-of-fact delivery of the absurd and horrific adds to the stories’ disquieting atmosphere. The Coiled Serpent shows off Grudova’s wild imagination and her commitment to pushing boundaries to create stories that’ll stick with you – like so much faecal matter on filthy toilets or spoilt custard crusting to an unruly mustache–even if sometimes you wish they wouldn’t.

Cicada Summer by Erica McKeen wonderfully (horribly?) captures the disorienting atmosphere of the 2020 pandemic summer. Set in a remote Ontario cabin, it follows Husha, her ailing grandfather, and her ex-lover, Nellie, as they navigate isolation amidst emerging cicadas and oppressive heat in a several weeks long slice of life where McKeen weaves themes of grief, climate anxiety, and trauma, I thought with remarkable sensitivity. Unpleasantness beautifully tended through gorgeous prose. Things take an intriguing turn when Husha discovers her late mother’s short story collection, adding a meta-literary element that both enriches and occasionally disrupts the main narrative. Interestingly, I found Nellie to be a particularly enigmatic character – her relationship with Husha felt oddly distant despite their history, contributing to the overall sense of unease. McKeen’s ability to portray the warped sense of time and unreality during that unprecedented period is particularly striking, even if some elements, like Nellie’s presence, remain weirdly unclear.

Bad Dolls by Rachel Harrison I tend to think of Rachel Harrison’s writing as a sort of Gilmore Girls gal-pal coziness, but make it a little bit creepy and maybe add some campiness. It’s not exactly horror; it does play with the elements you find in horror –the atmosphere, the suspense, and even the monsters– but the fear and frights are tempered with friendship and humor and a sort of hygge-sleepover horror vibe that Rachel Harrison does really well. These stories of bachelorette parties from hell, the literal monstrosity of diet culture, and the titular creepy doll are delightful and fun, if not literally spooky or scary. And that’s okay! This is exactly why I enjoy Rachel Harrison so much. She fills a void I didn’t even know existed, and I love her for it.

We Used To Live Here by Marcus Kliewer is a the kind of frayed-nerve horror that has some aspects which will definitely cause some brutally sleepless nights. It captures that skin-crawling dread of falling down a Reddit rabbit hole at 2 AM, leaving you feeling infected by the story like a case of literary Morgellons. At its core, it’s a tale of boundaries – personal, physical, and psychological – and what happens when they start to blur in terrifying ways (think Aronofsky’s “Mother!”, but with a hefty dose of internet-age paranoia). When house-flipping couple Eve and Charlie let a strange family into their newly purchased home, reality begins to unravel in chilling ways. Kliewer’s prose creeps up on you, lulling you into false security before plunging you into heart-pounding terror. While some might balk at unanswered questions, the lingering mysteries only amplify the novel’s unsettling power–which, on one hand is a plus, as I do love an ambiguous ending, but on the other, I kinda feel like this book fizzled about halfway through, like the story couldn’t sustain itself.

God of the Woods by Liz Moore centers on the disappearance of 13-year-old Barbara Van Laar from her family’s Adirondack summer camp in 1975, echoing her brother’s vanishing fourteen years earlier. Moore tells the story through multiple perspectives, including Barbara’s mother Alice, counselor Louise, and detective Judyta. The non-linear timeline, jumping between the 1950s and 1970s, while I first found it discombulating, adds intriguing layers to the unfolding mystery. I think some reviewers have complained about the pacing, but I found it to move along pretty consistently throughout, with the multiple viewpoints keeping the story engaging and offering fresh insights at every turn. The vivid Adirondack setting and well-developed female characters particularly stood out to me. Moore’s exploration of themes like motherhood, class, and identity is nuanced and thought-provoking, and while on one hand, sure–rich people’s problems, but on the other, well, a tragedy is a tragedy, and there were a slew of heartbreaking ones in this book.

In The Lonely Hours by Shannon Morgan, When Edwina Nunn inherits Maundrell Castle, she and her teenage daughter Neve are thrust into a world where past and present collide in shadow-filled corridors, and there are quite literally ghosts around every corner. Morgan deftly navigates between timelines, unraveling a mystery that spans generations and centers on the enigmatic Maundrell Red diamond. The castle itself becomes a character (albeit sort of a Scooby Doo character), its history seeping through ancient stones and into the very bones of the story. While ghost story tropes abound, Morgan infuses them with fresh energy, exploring themes of generational trauma and mental health with a nuanced touch. The relationship between Edwina and Neve provides a grounding counterpoint to the supernatural elements, though Neve’s often shitty attitude towards her mother can grate on the nerves. It’s a slow burn at first, but once the plot picks up steam, you’ll find yourself deeply immersed in the gothic soap opera-esque twisted tale of the Maundrell family.

Generation Loss by Elizabeth Hand is definitely not new, and I am very late to the party, and you could maybe argue that self-destructive nihilist Cass Neary is just another generation‘s version of the kind of contemporary character trope I have grown to hate…but…I don’t think so. Cass is no fresh-faced MFA graduate grappling with first-world problems and wallowing in existential crises born of comfort. She’s a weathered survivor of New York’s punk scene, carrying the scars and stories of a life lived on the edge. The bleak atmosphere and weirdness the novel’s setting, a remote island off the coast of Maine, isolation and decay it’s very landscape, and the undercurrent of violence running through the story and threatening to explode at any moment–this all added a raw, urgent intensity that makes so much else I have been reading lately lackluster and pale in comparison.

The Glow by Jessie Gaynor  follows desperate publicist Jane Dorner as she gets entangled in a bizarre wellness retreat, a premise that might sound familiar to readers of recent millennial wellness horror. However, Gaynor’s novel stands out with its self-awareness and refusal to take itself too seriously. I appreciated the amusing metaphors and funny turns of phrase that pepper the narrative. Unlike some entries in this genre The Glow knows exactly what it is – it doesn’t buy into its own hype or come across as pretentious. This self-aware approach to satirizing wellness culture and social media influencers made for a refreshing read in an increasingly crowded field.

Little Hidden Doors by Naomi Sangreal As someone who has been fascinated with dreams and diligently recorded them since my teens, I found Naomi Sangreal’s Little Hidden Doors to be a transformative guide for deepening my engagement with the dream world. This guided journal artfully combines psychological insight with creative prompts, offering a unique approach to self-discovery that I found both engaging and transformative. Sangreal’s writing style is accessible yet deeply thoughtful, making complex concepts from Jungian psychology feel relevant to daily life. I particularly appreciated her nuanced take on nightmares, which helped me reframe and engage with challenging dream imagery. The artistic elements throughout the book not only beautify the experience but also serve as inspiration for one’s own creative exploration of dreams. Little Hidden Doors has genuinely altered how I perceive my nighttime adventures, and has dramatically expanded my dream practice beyond mere recording, turning each morning into an opportunity for growth and insight and opening up new avenues for self-discovery and creative expression that I’m excited to continue exploring.

In The Middle of The Night by Riley Sager follows Ethan Marsh, who returns to his childhood home on Hemlock Circle 30 years after his best friend Billy mysteriously vanished from their backyard tent. Plagued by insomnia and strange occurrences, Ethan begins to investigate what really happened that night, leading him to reunite with old neighbors and explore the surrounding woods where Billy once claimed monsters roamed. As he delves deeper, Ethan uncovers dark secrets about a nearby institute and realizes that the past is not as far behind as he thought. Unlike my experiences with Sager’s previous books, which often left me frustrated, this one exceeded all my (kinda low tbh) expectations. For the first time, I can say I have zero complaints about a Riley Sager novel –  five stars and a smarmy Paul Hollywood handshake to you, sir.

Salt Slow by Julia Armfield Julia Armfield’s “Salt Slow” is a siren song of nine stories, luring readers into deeply disturbing territory. In “The Great Awake,” sleep becomes a phantom limb, while “Stop Your Women’s Ears with Wax” orchestrates a symphony of feminine fury that left me breathless. Armfield’s prose is a scalpel, dissecting societal norms with surgical precision, yet leaving behind a beautifully grotesque patchwork of magical realism and horror. This collection is a tide pool of the strange and familiar, where each story is a creature that, once observed, changes you irrevocably.

 Calling a Wolf a Wolf by Kaveh Akbar is a shattered mirror, each shard reflecting…I don’t even know what. How to talk about poetry so often eludes me. It’s like describing a dream, all over the place and nonsensical and at the end you’ve told no one anything and you’ve bored them, too. Calling A Wolf A Wolf is full of addiction’s gnawing hunger, desire’s scalding touch, faith’s frantic ache. Tenderness and yearning, doom and deliverance and all the pain and ecstacy of being alive; encompassing all of these things in a vessel too small and too human and always one step always from breaking, maybe broken because we were born to be so (“the geese are curving around the horizon drawing maps / a curve is a straight line broken at all its points so much / of being alive is breaking.”) Bonus: the cover art is by Nicola Samori. And fuck that reviewer who dismissed it as being ugly. Seriously. Fuck that guy.

Spiritus Mundi is a fascinating anthology that explores the connection between creativity and the occult. Editor Elizabeth Sulis Kim has curated a collection of writings generated through various mystical methods, from scrying to tarot reading. My experience with this book was filled with what felt like magical coincidences, perfectly mirroring its mystical theme. I discovered a contribution from Camila Grudova, an author I’d recently encountered in my other readings (mentioned in a review above.) Jen Campbell, whose YouTube book reviews I frequently watch, also contributed a piece that I found both innovative and engaging. Pam Grossman’s “Invocation to Iris,” a lyric essay about the Greek goddess of rainbows, was absolutely phenomenal. Grossman describes it as “one of the weirdest, most personal, and most magical” things she’s ever written, and I wholeheartedly agree – it’s an absolute must-read. In a serendipitous turn, this book sparked a personal exploration of literary synchronicities. A passage I encountered eerily paralleled a phrase in a poetry book I had just read, inspiring a blog post about these uncanny literary connections. This experience felt like a real-life manifestation of the book’s exploration of mystical creativity. Spiritus Mundi left me with a deeper appreciation for the various ways writers can tap into unconventional sources of inspiration. It’s a thought-provoking journey that not only challenges our understanding of where ideas come from, but also seems to invite its own brand of magic into the reader’s life.

Tiny Threads by Lilliam Rivera had me initially intrigued but ultimately left me frustrated. The novel follows Samara, who lands her dream job working for the infamous designer Antonio Mota in Vernon, California. But this is no sunny paradise – the city is permeated by a slaughterhouse “perfume,” with pig squeals piercing the night. Rivera’s premise of blending fashion industry drama with supernatural horror seemed promising, as Samara grapples with visions of a blood-soaked woman amidst her high-stress work environment. The ambiguity between Samara’s potential substance-induced hallucinations and genuine hauntings added an intriguing layer. Samara’s increasingly erratic behavior, while reflective of her circumstances, became challenging to connect with as the narrative progressed and even the supernatural elements felt hindered by the overall slow progression of the plot. The elements for a compelling story were present, but the execution didn’t quite bring them together in a way that held my interest throughout.

youthjuice by E.K. Sathue Extremely flat-on-the-page 29-year-old copywriter Sophia joins skincare company HEBE and gets tangled up with their miracle product “youthjuice.” Attempts to skewer beauty influencer culture and “clean girl” trends, but lacks the bite to say anything new. Sophia’s poorly conceived character and baffling motivations drag down the story. Another “American Psycho meets [insert trendy reference]” that falls short, but might work if you’re really into skincare-themed thrillers and don’t need your satire to be particularly sharp.

If Something Happens To Me by Alex Finlay was the sort of fast-paced summer beach reading (I don’t go to the beach but whatever) that kept me engaged from start to finish. The story follows Ryan, a law student still dealing with his high school girlfriend’s mysterious disappearance, and includes multiple perspectives, including that of a super likable rookie deputy in Kansas. Finlay weaves together complex plot threads that span continents and timelines at a clipped pace, so much so that while some coincidences in the plot seemed a bit far-fetched, the story’s momentum was enough to keep me invested. I appreciated Finlay’s ability to balance suspense with emotional depth, creating characters that felt believable. The intricate, surprising narrative would have kept me guessing until the end–except I had just literally read another book with a similar plot, so too bad, Alex Finlay, I figured it out!

The Madness by Dawn Kurtagich I really wanted to love Dawn Kurtagich’s The Madness, but it left me with mixed feelings. This reimagining of the Dracula tale blends Welsh folklore with a modern psychological thriller, which sounds great on paper. The story follows Mina, a psychiatrist dealing with her own demons while trying to help her mysteriously ill friend Lucy. I appreciated some of the fresh takes, like turning Quincy Morris into a lesbian cop, and Kurtagich’s vivid descriptions of the Welsh landscape definitely set a creepy mood. But as I read on, things got messy. The book dips into mental illness and human trafficking in ways that made me uncomfortable, feeling more like shock value than thoughtful exploration. While I liked the focus on strong women, many characters fell flat for me. The climax had me turning pages, but it zoomed by so fast I could barely keep up. In the end, “The Madness” bit off more than it could chew. It has some cool ideas, but doesn’t quite pull them together. I closed the book feeling more perplexed than satisfied, wishing it had lived up to its intriguing premise.

 Just Like Mother by Anne Heltzel I initially struggled with Just Like Mother, but I’m glad I persevered. The story centers on Maeve, a cult escapee who reunites with her cousin Andrea after years apart. Andrea, now a successful CEO of a fertility-focused tech startup called NewLife, quickly draws Maeve into her world. I found the contrast between Maeve’s modest life as an editor and Andrea’s wealth intriguing. The novel delves into themes of motherhood and trauma in ways I didn’t expect, particularly through Andrea’s unsettling “Olivia” dolls and her intense focus on parenthood. While some plot developments were predictable, the book’s exploration of societal expectations around motherhood kept me engaged. It wasn’t a perfect read, but it certainly exceeded my initial expectations.

Perfume & Pain by Anna Dorn was deeply, infuriatingly disappointing. The novel follows Astrid Dahl, a mid-list author living in Los Angeles, as she attempts to revive her career after being “lightly canceled.” Despite its premise of homaging 1950s lesbian pulp fiction, the book falls squarely into a subgenre of contemporary fiction I’m finding increasingly tiresome, filled with millennial ennui and malaise. Astrid’s romantic entanglements with Ivy, a grad student, and Penelope, her neighbor, felt more like distractions than compelling plot points…which is maybe the point? Ugh. Depressing. Even the potentially interesting storyline of an actress wanting to adapt Astrid’s previous novel for TV couldn’t salvage my interest. As a perfume enthusiast, I was particularly let down by the perfume references, which felt like scattered afterthoughts rather than integral elements of the story. While Dorn aimed for “unapologetically feminine yet ribald,” I found myself more frustrated than entertained by a story that seemed more interested in navel-gazing than genuine storytelling. And don’t get me wrong, I can get on board with navel-gazing but for god’s sake don’t be so gross and annoying about it.

Whoever You Are, Honey by Olivia Gatwood is a mesmerizing debut that blends elements of literary fiction with a tantalizing hint of sci-fi that never quite crystallizes into full-blown speculative fiction. Set in a gentrified Santa Cruz waterfront, the novel crafts a world that feels both familiar and slightly off-kilter and delves deep into the complexities of female relationships and identity in our hyper-connected world. The relationship between neighbors Mitty and Lena forms the core of the story, and in their burgeoning friendship, we examine desire, envy, and the personas we adopt to fit in. I found the story’s pacing somewhat challenging, as it doesn’t follow a typical plot-driven structure. The narrative takes on a dreamlike quality at times, particularly in its final act. This approach, however, aligns with the themes of memory and identity that Gatwood explores throughout the book. Whoever You Are, Honey prompted me to question the nature of authenticity in our digital age. I find myself frequently replaying the book’s final scenes in my mind, pondering their implications and the questions they raise. Even as I speculate about what might have truly transpired, I find I prefer the open-ended nature of the conclusion, allowing the story to continue evolving in my imagination these many months later.

In The Secret Lives Of Color by Kasia St. Clair explores 75 shades, detailing their historical, cultural, and artistic significance. The book covers a spectrum from lead white to pitch black, each color’s story packed with facts and anecdotes. St. Clair reveals how certain hues, like ultramarine blue and Tyrian purple, once rivaled gold in value and how others, such as radium green, had deadly consequences. Despite the potentially vibrant subject matter, I found parts of the book unexpectedly dry. Ironically, the chapters on black emerged as the most engaging, offering insights that truly caught my interest. While St. Clair’s research is undoubtedly meticulous, the overall execution left me wishing for a more consistently colorful and captivating. In a similar vein, The Universe in 100 Colors: Weird and Wondrous Colors from Science and Nature by Tyler Thrasher is being released tomorrow, and I have very high hopes for that one. I have previously interviewed Tyler, and there is no way that book is going to be dry and boring!

Annie Bot by Sierra Greer  Annie is a top-of-the-line, state-of-the-art robot designed to be the perfect girlfriend for her owner, Doug–but as Annie’s intelligence evolves, she begins to question her purpose and the nature of her relationship with Doug. Greer’s portrayal of Annie’s growing self-awareness is both fascinating and unsettling. The book delves into complex themes of autonomy, consent, and the nature of love in unequal power dynamics, and while I found this narrative engrossing, there were some scenes I found difficult to read, particularly given my past experiences with controlling, manipulative relationships. Doug’s behavior, right down to choosing and approving Annie’s outfits and clothing, was upsetting to me, even after all this time. Interestingly, I found Annie, a robot, to be the most likable character I’ve read in recent memory. This realization gave me pause – what does it say about the state of contemporary fiction, or perhaps about my own perceptions, that I connected most strongly with an artificial being?

Trainwreck: The Women We Love To Hate, Mock, and Fear…And Why by Jude Ellison Sady Doyle examines society’s fascination with women in crisis, analyzing figures from Mary Wollstonecraft to Britney Spears. Doyle explores how media and culture create and consume the “trainwreck” narrative, dissecting cases like Charlotte Brontë, Billie Holiday, and Amy Winehouse. The book draws connections between historical treatment of women like Sylvia Plath and contemporary figures such as Whitney Houston and Lindsay Lohan, revealing enduring patterns of public scrutiny and shame. I found Doyle’s analysis of these diverse cases particularly enlightening, challenging me to reconsider my own perceptions of these women and the narratives surrounding them. I previously read Doyle’s essays on monstrous feminine archetypes,  Dead Blondes and Bad Mothers, which was similarly illuminating and I’m pretty sure I’d recommend anything they’ve ever written. Also, did you know that BPAL created a perfume collection for this book?

Happiness Falls by Angie Kim portrays a biracial Korean-American family facing a father’s sudden disappearance, with the only witness being their son Eugene, who has Angelman syndrome and cannot speak. The story, narrated by 20-year-old Mia, moved me with its nuanced exploration of language and disability, prompting reflection on assumptions about communication and intelligence. While the mystery drives the plot, it’s Kim’s handling of complex family dynamics and philosophical questions that lingered with me long after finishing the book. Despite occasional pacing issues due to Mia’s detailed analyses, the depth this brought to the characters made for a thought-provoking read that I found myself turning over and over in my brain.

Bury Your Gays by Chuck Tingle is a compelling blend of Hollywood critique and supernatural thriller following Misha, a gay screenwriter out to his friends but not publicly, who’s grappling with industry pressure to kill off queer characters in his hit TV show. Tingle’s writing cleverly weaves Misha’s past and present, creating a layered exploration of integrity in the face of success. The story takes an intriguing turn when characters from Misha’s old horror scripts come to life, adding a thrilling dimension to the industry commentary. While the middle dragged a bit, Misha’s indomitable spirit kept me invested. I appreciated his unwavering optimism and determination to do things his way, fighting not just for what’s right, but for his vision and principles. Tingle’s combination of insider knowledge, LGBTQ+ representation issues, and supernatural elements makes for a unique read that, while it wasn’t my favorite read in the past few months… it was an ambitious novel that I thoroughly enjoyed in the moment.

Chlorine by Jade Song follows Ren Yu, a competitive swimmer whose obsession with becoming a mermaid drives her to extremes. The novel alternates between Ren’s intense pursuit of her aquatic ideal and her teammate Cathy’s unreciprocated love letters. Set against the backdrop of high-pressure competitive swimming, the book delves into Ren’s struggle with her human form and her desire to transcend it, touching on issues of body image and self-acceptance and exploring themes of identity, belonging, and transformation, While the premise might seem fantastical, Song grounds it in the very real pressures faced by young athletes–and even if you’re not sporty in any sense of the word, you will find yourself drawn in (sort of like how I was with Ted Lasso, even though I resisted for the longest time!)  The writing is immersive, capturing both the physicality of swimming and the mental state of someone increasingly detached from reality. This was probably the most unique take on coming-of-age stories I have ever read, blending elements of magical realism with an incisive look at the costs of pursuing perfection.

I Was a Teenage Slasher by Stephen Graham Jones might be my favorite book of his yet. Set in 1989 Lamesa, Texas, it follows Tolly Driver, a seventeen-year-old with more potential than motivation, who finds himself cursed to become a killer. Jones brilliantly captures the claustrophobia of small-town life, where everyone knows your business, and sets it against the backdrop of the slasher genre he clearly loves. What really got me was how Jones cleverly reimagines the standard slasher formula, telling the story from the killer’s perspective. I found myself, disturbingly, rooting for Tolly as he navigates this blood-soaked tragedy. The way Jones explores the unfairness of being an outsider through horror tropes is both clever and unsettling. It’s like a summer teen movie gone terribly, wonderfully wrong – and I couldn’t put it down.

Fruit of the Dead by Rachel Lyon Aimless, vulnerable camp counselor Cory falls into the orbit of charismatic pharma CEO Rolo Picazo in this summer thriller that, unbeknownst to me while reading (because I am an idiot, I guess), retells the Persephone myth. Lyon’s lush prose creates a hypnotic atmosphere as Cory navigates luxury, addiction, and power imbalances on Picazo’s private island. The dual perspectives of Cory and her mother Emer add depth, but sometimes slow the pacing. While I missed the mythological connection, the themes of consent and captivity are unmistakable, offering a scathing critique of modern power dynamics. Might appeal to readers who enjoy dark, sensual narratives, whether or not they catch the classical allusions.

Smothermoss by Alisa Alering Set in 1980s Appalachia, focuses on two sisters in an isolated mountain community. Sheila, the protagonist, is a complex character grappling with poverty, her identity, and an inexplicable supernatural burden. Her younger sister Angie has an uncanny connection to the mountain’s arcane elements. When a brutal murder occurs nearby, Sheila must confront both tangible dangers and mystical threats. The author creates a really atmospheric story that blends their harsh reality with dark, folkloric elements, weaving a tale that’s both grounded and eerily otherworldly.

Aesthetica by Allie Rowbottom follows a 35-year-old former Instagram influencer now working behind a cosmetic counter. On the eve of Aesthetica™, a high-risk surgery to reverse all her past plastic surgeries, she’s forced to confront her traumatic past when asked to expose her former manager/boyfriend. The novel jumps between her life as a 19-year-old Instagram celebrity and her present struggles, delving into the dark realities of social media fame, body image, as well as mother-daughter dynamics. Rowbottom’s writing seems deliberately and effectively ugly, stripping away the glossy veneer of influencer culture to reveal its grotesque underpinnings. I did not enjoy this and I am not sure I appreciated it, either. So many wellness/beauty industry/influencer books are being published right now! I think half of them are in this blog post!

Fruiting Bodies by Kathryn Harlan is a subtly disquieting collection of short stories that blends everyday situations with surreal elements, and the somewhat fantastical or slightly off-kilter.  The stories range from a tale of mushrooms growing on a woman’s body to an eerie exploration of childhood fears about a new family member. My favorites were “Algae Bloom,” “The Changeling,” and “Is This You?”, with “Fiddler, Fool, Pair” being the standout (it kinda reminded me of Elizabeth Hand’s short story “Near Zennor”.) (I liked “Near Zennor” so much, I made a playlist for it!) Harlan’s writing is vivid and evocative, creating an atmosphere that’s both familiar and slightly unsettling, and these stories are outstanding in the way that only a quietly shocking story can be. Not bombastic or gory, but the sort of thing that makes your heart gasp for air because, for a moment, your lungs forgot how to breathe.

The Dissonance by Shaun Hamill is a contemporary fantasy that brings together three former friends, Hal, Erin, and Athena, in their Texas hometown, where, as teenagers, they practiced a secret magic system which harnessed negative emotions. There’s also a fourth friend, Peter, who features prominently in flashbacks. Like Hamill’s previous work, this book has a lot of heart, and the world-building is immersive and satisfying. The story intertwines their adult struggles with a supernatural threat accidentally summoned by a teenager named Owen.  Hamill’s writing is immersive and character-driven, making the fantastical elements feel grounded in reality. While the magic system is intriguing, the premise that deeper trauma equates to greater magical potential made me reflect on the problematic assumption linking artistic genius and mental illness. Despite this, Hamill’s skillful world-building and exploration of themes like redemption and unresolved past trauma make for a compelling read.

Bird by Bird Annie Lamott is a treasure trove of wisdom that transcends its categorization as a book on writing, offering a raw, honest, and often hilarious look at the creative process. Lamott’s self-deprecating humor and personal anecdotes create a work that’s as entertaining as it is insightful. Her unflinching acknowledgment of the neuroses and setbacks that plague writers resonated deeply with me – not as a soothing balm, but as a weirdly addicting, pricklingly poison ivy for my spirit. I cannot count the times I cackled whilst reading this book; equally, I lost track of the number of times it moved me to tears.

Also: Writing is hard. I want to hear about how hard it is! One reviewer complained that Lamott made writing sound as painful as passing a kidney stone, and while he disagreed with that takeaway, I sure don’t. So I appreciate having that struggle, that difficulty, validated, even (especially) in snarky, petty, but also really encouraging and inspirational ways.

I underlined the hell out of this book. So much of this advice is good for not just for the writing life, but just…navigating life, itself. Here are a few things she said that I am still thinking about…
Her assertion that “being enough was going to have to be an inside job” hit me like a revelation, echoing my own recent struggles with seeking external validation, particularly through social media. This idea resonated with me as I continue to grapple with building my self-worth, rather than relying on likes or followers.

The author’s emphasis on giving from the deepest part of yourself, and finding reward in that act of giving itself, felt revolutionary in our often results-driven world. As Lamott puts it, “You have to give from the deepest part of yourself, and you are going to have to go on giving, and the giving is going to have to be its own reward.” Publishing and recognition doesn’t solve everything. In fact, it hardly solves anything. It’s a reminder that I need to focus more on the (painful) joy of creating itself, rather than constantly worrying about how my work will be received. But I’ll admit, I often find myself wondering what the point is of writing something if I’m not sharing it. It’s a tension I’m still grappling with – the pull between creating for its own sake and the desire for my words to be read and acknowledged.

This metaphor of writing as a ‘little lighthouse’ really struck a chord with me. It made me think about how my own writing might impact others in ways I can’t predict or even imagine. It’s a comforting thought when I’m struggling with self-doubt – that even if I can’t see it, my words might be illuminating a path for someone out there.

Finally, and maybe most of all, I love how the book’s title comes from Lamott’s childhood memory of her brother struggling with a bird-watching report. It’s become a sort of mantra for me when I’m facing overwhelming tasks, not just in writing but in life generally. ‘Bird by bird’ reminds me to take things one small step at a time. When I’m staring down a daunting project, I try to remember this approach – break it into tiny, manageable pieces. It doesn’t always work, but when it does, it helps me feel like I’m making progress instead of drowning in the enormity of it all. This, and the crappy little elf advice, are probably the most helpful writing suggestions I know. 

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A mysterious rider leans forward on a horse seemingly formed of living shadow, their posture speaking of urgency and a mission that cannot wait. Hair streams behind them, merging with the horse’s mane like a mesmerizing Rorschach test in motion, challenging us to decipher where intention ends and instinct begins. This breathtaking scene unfolds against a backdrop of lurid red – perhaps velvet curtains, a blood-tinged sunset, or the very gates of hell yawning open.

Conjured forth by contemporary artist Tristan Elwell in the cover art for Ashling by Isobelle Carmody, it encapsulates the spirit of high fantasy with an undercurrent of delicious menace. It speaks of quests undertaken in realms where the natural and supernatural coexist, evoking a world where untamed spirits race against looming shadows.

Fantastical, brooding imagery leaps from the covers of countless tomes, beckoning readers into realms of fantasy, young adult adventures, and thought-provoking editorials. Elwell’s darkly whimsical visions serve as portals, each image a visual distillation of complex narratives into single, compelling moments frozen in time. His art is like a tarot deck for the modern age, each image a card that tells a story of possible futures and hidden truths.

Beyond book covers, this artistic vision spills onto Magic: The Gathering cards; whether you’re cycling with Merfolk Looter or summoning a horde with Elvish Piper, Elwell’s contributions to this beloved bastion of nerdery transforms players’ hands into galleries of miniature masterpieces amidst their fantastical battles.

In this evocative scene featured in my book The Art of Fantasy: A Visual Sourcebook Of All That Is Unreal, we spy a levitating witch-like character slyly peeking over her shoulder to catch us in the act of observing her. Her wild grey hair billows in an unseen ethereal current, adding to her mystical allure. Below, a cat cleverly bats at an unseen ‘mouse,’ while a circle of arcane symbols swirls on the floor. An incongruous on/off button in the foreground adds a surprising modern touch to this magical scene. The image is bathed in the warm glow of a trio of pillar candles held aloft by wrought iron stands, illuminating this instance of the arcane and the contemporary.

A visual paradox where ancient sorcery and modern technology coexist in a single, mesmerizing moment, it’s an intriguing fusion that invites viewers to ponder the intersection of mystical arts and technological advancement, each complex in its own right. The image bears a whimsical resemblance to a somewhat archaic ad for witchy helpdesk support in PC Plus magazine, but it’s the captivating illustration adorning the cover of Curses, Inc. and Other Stories by Vivian Vande Velde.

Midnight in a graveyard, a sleek black cat paces at a crossroads, its presence both ominous and intriguing. Headstones thrust up from shaggy, unkempt grass, casting long shadows across the scene. The dampness of overgrown blades is almost palpable, their imagined rustle carried on a chill breeze. This haunting imagery for Witch Way to Murder by Shirley Damsgaard weaves a visual story of mystery and magic that entices the viewer to peer deeper into its shadows. I am totally judging a book by its cover here, but you can count me among the viewers enticed to peek! (I’m looking for a copy at the library as we speak!)

A domestic longhair cat, resplendent in a business suit, regards us with an expression of cunning professionalism. Its eyes glint with intelligence and a hint of mischief, suggesting playful yet potentially nefarious schemes. This clever and cute image, with its undercurrent of menacing shenanigans, graces the cover of John Scalzi’s Starter Villain and becomes a charming yet unsettling visual ambassador for Scalzi’s satirical exploration of corporate ethics and modern villainy.

The brilliance of this cover becomes even more apparent when considered alongside the book’s premise (which unlike a few above, I have actually read!) In Starter Villain, Charlie, a recently divorced substitute teacher, inherits his estranged uncle’s unconventional business: supervillainy.  Thrust into a world of lasers, talking cats, and unionized dolphins, Charlie embarks on a journey of self-discovery amidst the absurdity, where humor and intrigue simmer –dangerously, delightfully!–beneath the surface of a dormant volcano in a remote island lair.  Elwell’s suited cat perfectly serves as an ideal visual ambassador for Scalzi’s satirical exploration of corporate ethics and modern villainy.

Personal works reveal a deep appreciation for the gothic and dramatic. In “Isolation,” a striking figure perches high on a wire, defying gravity and convention. Adorned in a long black Victorian-style frock, complete with lace collar and cameo, the figure’s playful space buns add a touch of youthful spirit to the somber attire. An umbrella clutched in hand leaves us wondering: is it to ward off sun or rain? Four crows share the wire, a fifth ascending to join this curious gathering, regarding their human companion with interest but without malice, as if recognizing a kindred spirit in this darkly clad figure who has ventured into their domain.

“Inversion,” which just yesterday won First Place for Digital Art in the Beautiful Bizarre Magazine Art Prize (many sincere congratulations, Tristan!!) mirrors this scene but diverges dramatically. A nude woman hangs upside down from a wire, her body a study in grace and control. The tension in her form evokes a ballet dancer practicing passé relevés variations, every muscle defined, every line carefully considered. She shares her precarious perch with a quartet of bats, their expressions a mixture of fascination and bewilderment at this topsy-turvy human interloper. Behind them, the sky transitions to evening, wisps of clouds texturing the horizon as a distant flock of bats passes by.

These two pieces form a captivating diptych: from gothic Victorian aesthetic to an almost balletic nude, recurring motifs of solitary figures, wire perches, and avian companions create thematic links that invite contemplation on isolation, inversion, and the strange companions we find in lonely places. These works are like visual kōans, paradoxical vignettes that invite meditation on the nature of solitude and perspective.

Instagram sketches reveal a gallery of iconic figures: Elsa Lanchester’s Bride of Frankenstein, sultry silent film star Theda Bara, the hauntingly beautiful Peter Steele, and delightfully macabre Lily Munster. The artistic gaze extends beyond pure gothic to embrace a wider range of dramatic personalities: Nick Cave broods alongside Tom Waits, while the surreal world of David Lynch’s Eraserhead neighbors a classically melodramatic depiction of Salome offering John the Baptist’s head. His Instagram becomes a cabinet of curiosities, each sketch a specimen of pop culture preserved in the formaldehyde of Elwell’s distinctive style.

A particularly striking image captures an Edwardian lady in fencing attire, a red heart embroidered on her dress breast. It’s a masterful blend of historical aesthetics and symbolic elements, both beautiful and poignant.

While Elwell’s work has graced an impressive array of book covers spanning YA fantasy to cozy mystery and beyond, one can’t help but imagine the striking impact his art could have on gothic romance novels. Picture a cover where a graceful figure in a meticulously rendered Regency gown stands before a fog-shrouded manor, her hair tousled by an unseen wind. A sleek black cat winds around her ankles, its eyes gleaming with otherworldly intelligence, while a colony of bats silently wheels against the brooding sky.

Another scene might capture a moonlit balcony: a corseted Victorian beauty leans precariously over the railing, her lace-gloved hand outstretched toward a shadowy figure astride a powerful, dark horse in the garden below. The intricate detailing of her dress would be a testament to Elwell’s keen eye, while the play of light and shadow could hint at the passion and danger lurking within the pages. Or envision a windswept moor at twilight, where a lone rider on a ghostly pale horse gallops past ancient standing stones. In the foreground, crimson roses entwine with thorny vines, their blooms stark against the misty landscape.

Such covers would perfectly capture the genre’s signature blend of desire and dread, all while showcasing the motifs that make Elwell’s work so distinctively captivating. Elwell’s hypothetical gothic romance covers would be like Victorian valentines dipped in the blood of midnight ink – ornate, passionate, with just a touch of sly diablerie.

And finally, here is a Halloween cow. A bovine celebration of the most wonderful time of the year! Because beyond the artist’s keen eye for detail and all their technical wizardry and all those years of honing and refining their skills, we know the thing that truly counts is recognizing that animal + Halloween costume = pure, unadulterated gold. I’m not even joking. It is true! (You have no idea how much I love this cow!)

But seriously folks! Elwell’s portfolio is a cocktail of the macabre, the whimsical, and fantastical, shaken vigorously and served with a twist of sardonic wit. These works, from fully realized paintings to quick sketches, reveal an artist with an uncanny ability to capture the essence of his subjects, and his images act as windows to realms where magic, mystery, and wonder are tangible, ever-present forces. Infused with a dreamy darkness and a subtle but distinctive thread of mordant humor, these works captivate and inspire. They invite us to imagine worlds where a midnight ride on a shadow steed is possible, where a feline might stand guard at a haunted crossroads, or where a talking cat in a business suit could be plotting world domination.

 Speaking of how these works captivate and inspire, it was that very cat at that very crossroads that caught my eye back in 2010 when it was rampantly reblogged all over Tumblr sans credit or context. Searching out the artist responsible for it was how I first discovered Tristan’s body of work, which I have been following ever since. It feels like a very full-circle moment to have been able to include Tristan’s work in my book.  What a weird, wild, wonderful world! And how glad I am to share it with artists like Tristan Elwell.

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It struck me the other day, as I was going through my evening skincare routine, how little I know about my sisters’ daily lives. We’re all in our forties now, living far apart, each carving out our own paths. I’m the oldest of three, and there was a time when I could have told you exactly how each of my sisters started their day, what they ate for lunch, and how they unwound in the evening. Now, those details feel like distant memories, faded photographs I can’t quite bring into focus.

I have my routines, not strict by any means, but regular enough. They’re the scaffolding of my days, providing a sense of structure and comfort. But what about my sisters? One recently mentioned that she hasn’t been eating much lately, and her appetite has diminished due to stress or circumstances. The other, in a moment of self-deprecating humor, declared herself “feral,” claiming to have no routine at all. These snippets of information, casual as they were, left me feeling oddly bereft.

It’s a peculiar sort of longing, isn’t it? This desire to know the minutiae of their lives. I find myself wondering: Does my middle sister still order the blonde roast and the sous-vide egg bites, or has she succumbed to the allure of brown sugar shaken oat milk lattes? Does the youngest still stay up too late, reading Cynthia Harrod Eagles until the wee hours, or has adulting finally caught up with her sleep schedule? These may seem like trivial details, but to me, they feel like vital pieces of a puzzle I’m trying to complete.

Why does this matter so much to me? Perhaps it’s because routines are the invisible architecture of our lives. They’re the quiet rituals that shape our days and, by extension, who we are. To know someone’s routine is to hold a map to their inner world, to understand the contours of their current lives in a way that occasional phone calls and holiday gatherings can’t quite capture.

This desire to know and to share has led me to broadcast my own routines into the digital void. My blog posts and social media updates often feature snippets of my daily life – a photo of my morning reading, my latest sourdough attempt, the serum I swear by for inflamed skin. It’s a way of saying, “This is me, this is my life now.”

But here’s the irony that doesn’t escape me: my sisters rarely engage with these posts. They don’t read my blog, and their interactions with my social media are sporadic at best. I am not criticizing. It’s just a fact. I think I’m probably interesting to literally everyone but them. After all, I’m only the oldest sister they’ve known all their lives. And who am I to talk? I’m the one who won’t even pick up the phone to call them! (I hate phone calls, come on!) But seriously, if I did, I know they’d be happy to chat and we’d probably talk for hours. So I can’t be mad that they didn’t comment on my Facebook post, that’s unreasonable. There’s no one to blame here except me.

But it’s a strange paradox of modern life, isn’t it? We have more ways than ever to share our lives, yet true connection often feels more elusive. We mistake glimpses for insight, likes for understanding, and comments for conversation. I’m guilty of this too, scrolling through my sisters’ profiles, seeing one sister’s naughty dog, another sister’s pithy observations, and feeling like I’ve caught up with them–when in reality, I’ve only seen a carefully curated moment of their lives.

In the absence of shared physical space and daily interactions, these fragments of routine become almost talismanic. I cling to the few details I know, extrapolating entire days from a single data point. My middle sister shares in chat that she is coveting a particular picture frame she has seen at my house – does this mean she is coming out from under the exhaustion of the moving process and the decorating of her new house is commencing? The youngest updated her profile picture to a quirky illustration… is there some bigger meaning there, some inside joke I’m not privy to? Or is it simply a reflection of her mood that day, a small window into her current state of mind?

These small glimpses into their lives are like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle scattered across a coffee table. I find myself picking up each piece, turning it over in my hands, squinting to see how it might fit into the larger picture of their daily lives. Sometimes, I suspect I’m trying to force connections where there are none, creating patterns from random brushstrokes. It’s a habit born from years of shared history and a desire to maintain that closeness we once had, even as our lives diverge and our daily routines become mysteries to one another.

My own routines have become a form of connection, even if it’s one-sided. As I apply my nightly Juicy Calendula Cream, I wonder if my sisters are doing something similar, if they’ve found products they love, or if skincare is just another chore in their day. When I sit down to dinner with Yvan, while watching Beryl eat from around the world or Dungeon Meshi,  I try to imagine my sisters’ evenings unfolding in their own spaces, but the pictures in my mind are blurry, incomplete. Are they ordering in, venturing out to a local spot, or just having a bowl of cereal? Do they have favorite shows they watch while eating? Are they reading a book? Or is their table free of distractions because they are trying to eat “mindfully?” (Ugh.) The distance between us seems to grow with each passing day, measured not in miles but in the accumulation of these small, unknown moments.

Perhaps this urge to know and share our daily rituals is a grown-up version of the secret languages and inside jokes we had as children. It’s a way of maintaining that sense of intimacy, of shared history, even as our lives diverge. Or maybe it’s simpler than that – maybe it’s just the human need to feel connected, to know that we’re not alone in our daily struggles and small victories.

As I reflect on this, I realize that my fixation on our routines stems from a deeper desire to feel connected to my sisters. It’s not really about knowing the minutiae of their days, but about finding ways to bridge the gap that time and distance have created between us. Perhaps instead of wondering about their routines, I should be creating new shared experiences, even from afar. But honestly, even as I write these words, I have no idea what that really means or how it might look.

A weekly video call? (We tried that during the pandemic, I don’t think we liked it.) Online watch-parties? A book club just for the three of us? Maybe a collaborative playlist where we each add songs that remind us of our childhood? Or a private Instagram account where we post one moment from our day, however mundane?

Yet, as soon as these ideas form, I feel a familiar dread creeping in—the dread of obligation, of carving out precious time from our already packed schedules. And I can’t help but wonder if my sisters would feel the same. There’s a certain irony in the fact that the one thing that hasn’t changed over the years is our shared, unspoken hope for a last-minute cancellation. That instant, exhilarating relief when plans fall through—it’s a feeling we all know well, a silent understanding that binds us even as it keeps us apart. How do we balance this desire for connection with our equally strong need for unstructured time? Is there a way to nurture our sisterhood without it feeling like another item on our to-do lists?

As I sit here, pondering the intricacies of our sisterhood, I’m left with just this. The truth is, our relationships have evolved. We’re no longer the little girls who played with Barbies or who fought with the neighbor kid because she didn’t play with Barbies the same way we did (she was a little fascist!). We’re not even the same people we were a dozen years ago, at Thanksgiving -a time when we’d all convene at our grandparent’s house and sleep together in the guest room together and drink too much and get rowdy but shush ourselves because we didn’t want to wake the grandparents! We’re women with our own lives, routines, and responsibilities. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe that’s the way it was always going to be.

I don’t have a neat solution or a heartwarming conclusion to offer. Some days, I’m content with our sporadic texts and occasional calls. Other days, I long for a closeness we may never recapture. But I’m learning to find comfort in the small moments of connection we do share, fleeting as they may be.

When one sister sends me a meme that she can’t post in her feed because it’s too weird or niche, and we revel in our shared, bizarre, very grim sense of humor. When the other sister messages me about a vintage Betty Crocker cookbook we recall belonging to our grandmother, but we couldn’t remember what it was called…and she finally found it! For sale on Etsy for $16! This is what I’ve got of my sisters right now. And as small as it is, it fills me with a love too big to put into words. And I fucking treasure it.

So, I’ll continue to share my routines, to cast them out into the world. Not because I expect my sisters to read or respond, but because in doing so, I keep alive the possibility of connection. I maintain an open door, an invitation to step into my daily life whenever they choose. I’ll post about the oatmeal cookie creamer I use in my coffee, the miracle balm I tried when I found a weird rash on my butt a few weeks ago (it worked!), and my attempts at lucid dreaming, per this book. And when we meet in our dreams, I’ll tell them we are lucid dreaming and that we can do whatever we want! Which is, of course, summoning a unicorn and riding off to find 1993-era Glenn Danzig. This is a true story. I dreamed it last month.

Meanwhile, in the waking world, I’ll wonder about their days, share snippets of my own life into the digital void, and yes, feel that guilty relief when plans occasionally fall through.

And to my sisters, if by some chance you’re reading this: I miss knowing the rhythm of your days. I miss being a daily part of your lives. But more than that, I miss you. The door is always open, whether for a meme, a memory, or a middle-of-the-night lucid dream adventure. Until then, I’ll be here, living my life, sharing my routines, and always keeping a piece of my heart open for you.

Even if that piece is currently occupied by dream-Glenn Danzig.

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There’s a special kind of joy in writing about things you love. But let’s be honest: there’s an even deeper, more visceral satisfaction in absolutely demolishing something you hate. And when it comes to perfume, the stinkers provide far juicier material than the stunners.

Welcome to the omnibus edition of “Stinkers & Duds” – a monumental collection of over 25 fragrances that have assaulted my nostrils over the years. This isn’t just a recent roundup; it’s a grand anthology of olfactory offenders!

Why dedicate so much time and nose space to perfumes I can’t stand? Maybe it’s the catharsis of venting frustrations in an industry drowning in hype. Perhaps it’s the thrill of puncturing overinflated reputations or the solidarity of shared disdain. Or it could be as simple as this: good perfume is nice, but bad perfume is a story. It sparks conversation, ignites debate, and lets us revel in the shared experience of collective disgust. There’s a perverse thrill in describing just how a scent went wrong – was it a cacophony of mismatched notes, or a single accord so vile it dominates everything else? Think about it. You don’t call your friends over to smell something pleasant. But something truly heinous? That’s an experience you’ve got to share. “Oh my god, smell this. It’s like a crime scene in a bottle.”

This isn’t about being mean for the sake of it. It’s about honesty in an industry that often feels like it’s choking on its own marketing fumes. It’s about calling out the emperor’s new clothes when they smell like a dumpster fire wrapped in gas station plastic-wrapped fake roses. In this extensive compilation, you’ll find everything from overhyped designer launches, to niche creations that should have remained a fever dream. We’ve got reformulations that butchered beloved classics, and avant-garde experiments that prove not all innovation is progress.

So settle in for a long, wild ride through a putrid hall of shame. Whether you’re here to commiserate, looking for warnings, or just enjoy a bit of schadenfreude, prepare for an olfactory odyssey of the damned. Because while a good perfume might make you smell nice, there is nothing quite so much fun as sniffing out the truly awful ones …and raising a bit of a stink.

Vietnamese Coffee | d’Annam: I really wanted to love this fragrance; I was so intrigued by the idea. But the reality of it is that it smells like sour coffee-breathed admonishments and secondhand smoke from your cranky mother when you’re wearing too much fruity-floral Ex’cla-ma’tion eau de toilette and several greasy layers of cotton candy Lip Smackers before heading off for your first day of junior high circa 1989. As it dries down, the scent morphs into something eerily reminiscent of days-old espresso shots forgotten and sloshing in the bottom of a pink Caboodles organizer.

Invite Only Amber | 23 Kayali Fragrances: Invite Only Amber smells like spotting wonky, off-brand Spirit Halloween costumes in July. As in they attempted to capture the unparalleled autumnal opulence of Hermès Ambre Narguile, and put an orange spray tan on a white gourd and said, “ok, this is good enough, let’s call it Luxe Hookah Honeycomb or Fancy Tobacco Haze or maybe something really dumb, like Invite Only Amber.” It’s like a honeyed saffron cotton candy miasma, a saccharine amber simulacrum from a seedy midsummer carnival that leaves you longing for the rich, resinous depths of October’s golden hour.

Ôponé | Diptyque: Ôponé is a fragrance so revolting you’d think someone was joking, that it couldn’t possibly be real. But it is real, and I have a sample of it. It’s a vile cocktail of the following: a freshly-opened bottle of goopy, boozy-but-not-nearly-enough booze bitter berry Robitussin Maximum Strength Cough and Chest Congestion (possibly the one with Dextromethorphan and Guaifenesin), the most repellent, unpalatable artificial fruity-sour energy drink on the shelf with the most outrageously obnoxious packaging, the one so disgusting and foul that even the people you think might be into it would never buy, and the saddest long-stemmed fake rose wrapped in dusty crinkly plastic at the gas station. Nobody wants any part of this. Throw it in the trash immediately.

Tóor Tóor | Régime des Fleurs: Tonight I am sampling Tóor Tóor by Régime des Fleurs, and usually, it’s a bit fraught with this brand; it’s always an “oh, PLEASE, don’t be good!” ordeal because they are usually too good and TOO expensive. But. I needn’t have worried this time. My immediate and initial thoughts are that it’s like a vampire with a bizarre sweet tooth stumbled into a Precious Moment gift shop and drained all the sugary charm out of a figurine, leaving behind this twee, creepy, bloodless husk at the bottom of the trash bin, slowly dissolving in a puddle of garbage juice. The predominant notes of this unfortunate incident are of anemic citrus and a wan, powdery floral, and the strange cloying rot, spoiled nectar, and sour candied sewage of something that might have been cute, once? Like the undead remains of a Sanrio character, maybe? I don’t know, but it’s not good! Seems like my wallet is safe from you this time, Régime des Fleurs.

Shangri La Edition 2022 | Hiram Green: How do I say this without being unkind? Shangri-La from Hiram Green is less lush and harmonious utopian promised land and more a Hieronymus Bosch-envisioned hellish menagerie, blighted and bedeviled, doomed and damned–all the horror and grandeur and unbridled madness of the cosmos, distilled into one raspingly chaotic scent. The initial blast of overripe, fermented peaches and citrus fruit frizzles acridly at us, trumpeted straight out of a bizarre monster’s glossy pink backside; jasmine’s balmy decay wraps us in a fuzzy, fevered winding-sheet of a golden-throned man-eating bird, to remind us that all is vanity and the pleasures of the flesh are fleeting, and the strangely spiced kisses of a porcine nun linger on your skin like a grotesque memento from a carnival of depravity. In what twisted mind is this a Shangri-La? I think Hiram Green is having one over on us.

Apocalypstick | Mad et Len: While the notes listed for Apocalypstick, violet, rose, mint, (I thought I saw macadamia listed somewhere?) sound like a pleasant enough combination, what the perfume smells like to me is a village of small children infected with a vast malevolence of pure evil. This cloying candied floral doesn’t just tiptoe on the precipice of sweetness and decay; it’s not just a playful saccharine innocence masking a sinister undercurrent of rot. It is an immediate and overwhelming assault of viciously poisoned sugarplums stuffed with razorblades served to you by sticky fingers and pale faces with sharp teeth. It lingers, sickening on the skin like a toxic premonition, like a perpetual stain, an indelible mark of repulsion.

Fraaagola Saalaaata | Hilde Soliani: Fraaagola Salaaata is fun for a split second, it smells like strawberry Jello-scented lipgloss or a tiny bottle of effervescent berry eau de toilette that was sold alongside Angel Face Barbie in the 80s. Very sweet, with no nuance or complexity (though I do think that’s sort of the point of a perfume like this.) But then it becomes this monstrous vision of a wild strawberry-kiwi-ice-breeze-whatever vape pen shoved up a half-melted red gummy bear’s butt, and even more horrifying still, a plume of vape juice smoke billows out of its squished little vape bro mouth, and oh my god I am gagging and you don’t even want to see the face I am making just now.

Good Girl Gone Bad | By Kilian: If you have ever entered a hotel room immediately after the cleaning service has come and gone, then you are familiar with the scent of Juliette Has a Gun’s Good Girl Gone Bad. It is the powerful chemical cleaning agent miasma of grotty carpet and suspect duvets that have been freshly Febrezed, the delightfully noxious fumes of Scrubbing Bubbles, and the abrasive surfactants and solvents of industrial glass cleaner. If this Good Girl has Gone Bad, I suspect it’s because she kidnapped someone, concocted for them a toxic cocktail of these ingredients, toasted to their health in that shady hotel room while tossing her own drink over her shoulder, and skipped town while the evidence lay convulsing on the floor. Maybe they deserved it. I don’t judge these things. And I would also neither drink –nor wear– this fragrance.

Salt | Ellis Brooklyn: What even is the point of this? It’s the “live laugh love” of fragrance.

L’Interdit Eau de Parfum | Givenchy:  Givenchy L’Interdit is…oof. It makes my hips ache and my knees creak. It makes me feel like a fucking fossil. This is a candied fruity floral, like crushed shards of every flavor Jolly Rancher forming the vague shape of a flower but I think anyone who smells it will agree it is no flower found in nature. Do you know who smelled it and loved it and thought it was “bomb” and “fire” and “literally everything,” though? A quartet of college girls who robbed a fast-food restaurant and stole a car to fund their spring break plans and who then got bailed out of jail by a skeezy clown of drug dealer/rapper/arms dealer named Alien who looks just like James Franco. I’m pretty sure they are all about this bikini bacchanalia neon candy Harmony Korine girls gone wild hedonist hell of a scent, and man, they can have it. I’m too old for this shit.

You Or Someone Like You | Etat Libre d’Orange: ELdO You Or Someone Like You is the screechy confrontational performance art of a person having a freaky public meltdown, a full-out adult tantrum, taking place midafternoon in a popular coffee chain or a ubiquitous lingerie store in the mall, and which is probably being recorded by spectators for millions of future views on YouTube even as the melodrama is unfolding. It’s the synthetic aroma of an indoor public space filled with too many people breathing at once and poorly circulated air, the awkward musk of distressed and embarrassed onlookers, the cool mineralic concrete of silent complicity, the acrid, antiseptic arrogance of entitlement and the tang of weaponized tears and performative victimhood of someone who felt personally attacked by Victoria’s Secret’s return policy regarding thong panties or the fact that Starbucks was out of oat milk for their ridiculous latte order. You or Someone like you is the fragrance of someone making a massively upsetting stink in front of a crowd and feeling absolutely no shame or remorse because they have a right to everything, they deserve everything, merely because they exist.

Accident À La Vanille – Almond Cake Limited Edition | Jousset Parfums  Almond Cake is so nightmarishly awful that I was inspired to write a haiku for it…

A Robitussin
and playdough and almond milk
frathouse haze: DRINK, DRINK!

Pear Inc | Juliette Has A Gun: Rotting clumps of sour milk, canned fruit that’s been forgotten in a bunker for 35 years, and the slutty Egyptian musk that a zombie stripper demon might wear while giving you a wildly uncomfortable lap dance. My god. I just want to hurl this sample straight into the sun.

Eye of Seven Hills | Alghabra Parfums: Pink grapefruit sour gummies and …whiskey…? This is what happens when you let a 4-year-old play bartender. Learn to mix a drink, kid!

Poets of Berlin | Vilhelm Parfumerie: Poets of Berlin from Vilhelm Parfumerie is a vile bioluminescent mutant blueberry thing. A blueberry subjected to a sketchy, underfunded experiment in a prototype telepod but there was also a particle of lemon-aloe-bamboo Glade air freshener in the chamber before it was hermetically sealed as well as a smashed bedazzle gem that fell off of an intern’s acrylic nail, unnoticed. Torn apart atom by atom, the small jammy fruit merged with the glinting shards of sugary bling and a blisteringly caustic glow-in-the-dark citrus-lily. I don’t think David Bowie ever wrote a song about this monster but there was a movie adaptation with Jeff Goldblum.

Si Giorgio | Armani: There exist a handful of black currant and rose scents that are very lovely and unique. Armani Si is not one of them and frankly, it feels crass and vulgar and quite common in comparison. It’s a candied floral musk that sours to an offputting fruity cocktail, something with strawberries and cheap sparkling wine and I feel like this is a themed drink served as part of your book club’s annual romance pick, and god why can’t they ever let you pick the smutty selections? There’d be way more explosive body horror and horny devils and raving madwomen in the attic. None of this secret sexy neighbor or coworker enemies-to-friends or surprise baby basic bullshit. So yeah Si is your book club’s most boring member’s spicy pick. It’s probably called Billionaire Daddy or Tempting the Boss or something.

Rue St Honore | OUAI: Rue St Honore from Ouai is giving me some real idyllic springtime wisteria-draped cottagecore Crabtree & Evelyn Gunne Sax tradwife YouTube influencer exploited by their alt-right faschy podcaster husband for their perceived domesticity, femininity and purity vibes. Is this a field of violets and daisies and gingham picnic daydream or an escapist nostalgia-trap weaponized by Neo-Nazis? Maybe I am overthinking it, but there is something about this quaint floral garden fragrance that feels wildly wrong and deeply uncomfortable and makes me desperately itchy to stage an intervention for someone.

Decadence | Marc Jacobs: Imagine you won a contest run by your local radio station, you know the one with the obnoxious sexist pig morning show duo, generically called something like “Big Dude Bro and the Little Vermin.” Yeah, so you–lucky you!–entered this contest where the prize was the privilege of getting to spend the night in a local spot purported to be haunted. Great, right?! Well, turns out it’s just a sketchy vape shop and the “ghost” is like, how someone saw Jesus’s face in a baked potato or something. And that actually happened next door in the crusty diner. The moment you walk in the door you are assaulted by the sickening aroma of maple syrup vape juice, a cloying waft from an empty rum raisin ice cream container crawling with many-legged insects, and the dusty fumes of your meanest ancestor’s cherry pipe tobacco. Was it a haunting or was it Marc Jacobs Decadence? You conclude that while you did not experience anything in the slightest bit supernatural, this vile combination of notes will certainly haunt you for the rest of your days.

Jasmin Rouge | Tom Ford: Tom Ford’s Jasmine Rouge is a screechy white floral hairspray worn by a Real Housewife as she’s drunkenly throwing her mimosa in your face right before she pees herself in the middle of the restaurant. Check please!

Angel Nova | Mugler: This is a very horny perfume. But a sort of sad, lonely, horniness. It’s the drunk middle-aged lady at a concert or local gig, or festival, stumble-dancing alone. (I am middle-aged now, but in my memory, every incarnation of this woman always seems older than I will ever be.) It smells like what both partners might wear when they pack for their hedonism cruise in a last-ditch effort to save their relationship and they’re on the prowl for their unicorn. It’s a bit desperate and hopeless, like that last radiant burst of manic energy that you put into a thing that’s doomed to fail, so what the hell and why not. As to the actual fragrance, it’s a sticky stain on your sheets that if you dare get close enough to sniff, it smells of overripe raspberries, lychee syrup drizzled shaved ice, and a sickly sweet cola drink spiked with peppery patchouli bitters. Instead of spending your money on Angel Nova, I think it wise you invest in an extra session with your therapist.

Fancy | Jessica Simpson: When I was young, my mother didn’t drive, so my grandmother tootled us around with her on errands and took us where ever we needed to go. Her purse was a bottomless supply of Dum Dum lollipops and if we were well-behaved, we got one as a treat. This was a massive thrill when I was 4, but some arbitrary switch flipped when I was 5 and suddenly I found them utterly vile. No thanks, grandma! Imagine shaking sticky shards of fruit punch, cherry, and butterscotch flavored candies out of your best Belk’s church purse, and… that’s basically Fancy. It is Dum Dum dust. Interpret that however you like. You might say, well, oh, Sarah, it’s not made for you. Ok, I get that. But tell me… who is it made for? And do they keep their toy lipsticks on a hot pink plastic vanity and cook with an EZ bake oven?

Intense | Cafe Montale: I first sampled Montale’s Cafe Intense years ago when I was initially getting into fragrance and perfumes. I guess I was feeling a little nostalgic for that sample a kind MUA-er sent me way back when! My recollection was that it was meant to be a coffee-forward scent, but…it is not. My partner observed that it smells like a teenage girl who typically wore a lot of candied, sugary scents and who wanted to level up with fancy florals and didn’t quite hit the mark. She tried, I guess, was his conclusion. My thoughts are more specific. This is a cloying fruity-floral that smells exactly like Rose Jam from LUSH, which I bitterly loathe because that smells just like those gaggy sweet Jolly Ranchers hard candies that all the popular kids were always eating in 6th grade. Which in turn makes me think of the MOST popular girl, we’ll call her Mary Lesa H., who broke off and ATE part of my sugar crystal science project that year. I hate science projects and I have never forgiven Mary Lesa H., and this awful perfume can go straight to hell.

Mon Guerlain | Guerlain: Everyone seems quite taken with MonGuerlain, which I’d never tried, so I thought I’d take advantage of a Sephora sale and grab a bottle of the eau de parfum. I gotta be honest. It’s pretty gross. If you need a scent for impressing your peers after pledging yourself to Jesus as a pre-teen holy roller and you were going to hang with all of them at a rager of an overnight church lock-in? This would be what you’d reach for. And listen, I’m not knocking smelling good for your lord and savior, but I think even the begotten only son of God has zero tolerance for this cloying fruity-floral bargain bin Koolaid flavor of a scent. Where’s the more interesting aspects of lavender and bergamot that people are wild for? This is just watered down CapriSun that no one even spiked. I’m flummoxed. And now I’m out $80. Dammit.

Vanilla Vibes | Juliette Has A Gun: Vanilla Vibes, you had one job. For a fragrance with vanilla right there in the name, there is a shocking lack of it in the execution. Instead, it is a humdrum aquatic, with a sour, salty marine aspect and the barest whisper of sandy musk. I hate to use the word “boring” because that’s more of a judgment than a description, but I think in this case it’s perfectly warranted. I mean if this were a person, it wouldn’t even have a face. As a matter of fact, this is that same faceless person in a 50-year-old mermaid suit at Weeki Watchee barely submerged underwater and doing a terrible job entertaining children, and they’re actually so bored themselves they are texting on their phones instead of swimming and if you look closely you can see their toes poking through one of their fins. And you know what else? They smell nothing like vanilla at all.

…and the one that started it all, Flowerbomb | Viktor&Rolf: Described as “an explosive bouquet of fresh and sweet notes”, I personally think it smells like a conflagration of petty spite, mean-spiritedness, and small minds. Like bigoted small-town pageant moms and the shitty popular girls in 80s movies. It simultaneously makes me want to cringe and cry.  Also, it’s an enormous lie. It smells nothing like any flower. As to what it does smell like, precisely, I cannot pinpoint. A shallow dish of sugar water with some sneezy, cloying powder mixed in. Like Kool-Aid, I guess. It smells like a celebutaunt-inspired Kool-Aid. Or…unless, of course, there is a blossom or bloom that smells like Bongo jeans and hair-sprayed bangs and the wretched duo of Jennifer W. and Amanda P. in the 7th and 8th grade. How’s it feel to be the inspiration for the world’s worst fragrance, you dumb, hateful bitches.

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Last year, feeling a bit downtrodden by Florida’s reluctance to embrace autumn, I made a video titled “September Magics: Manifesting Autumn.” In it, I chronicled my efforts to summon the spirit of fall, even when the weather refused to cooperate. The video was a montage of all things autumnal – from crafts to cooking, reading to perfume sampling – condensed into five minutes of cozy, magical (low production value but whatever) enchantment.

At the time, I shared a synopsis of the video here on my blog, just summing it up and sharing the links. I know a lot of people (see also: me) forego the video altogether and skip straight to any links included, I get it! This year, I’m turning that video synopsis into a full-fledged blog post, marking the beginning of what I hope will become an annual tradition. Even if the Florida weather still hasn’t gotten the memo about fall, I’m committed to bringing autumn into my life through intentional actions and cherished rituals.

So, without further ado, here are ten ways I’m manifesting autumn this year, building on the foundation I laid in last year’s video…

1. Through my reading

When autumn approaches, I dive into contemporary folk-horror novels. There’s something about the blend of modern settings and ancient, creeping dread that perfectly captures the essence of the season for me.

Unlike folk horror in the form of historical fiction, these stories allow me to imagine supernatural terrors unfolding in familiar surroundings, making the experience more immersive and chilling. I find myself drawn to tales that explore current societal fears through a folk-horror lens. The faster pacing and relatable characters of these contemporary stories keep me engaged, while the autumnal themes – often featuring harvests, ancient rituals, or the thinning veil between worlds – resonate deeply with the season. Whether it’s a tale of ancient rites resurfacing in a gentrifying neighborhood, a podcast investigation uncovering a town’s dark agricultural past, a social media challenge spiraling into eldritch terror, or a solstice celebration in a remote eco-community taking a sinister turn, these books help me manifest the eerie, atmospheric qualities of autumn in my imagination.

Here are some titles in this vein I have enjoyed in recent years (or as recent as last week!) A few of them may be more…folk horror-adjacent, but they have similar vibes and are too good not to mention.

The Ritual by Adam Neville // Wylding Hall by Elizabeth Hand // Experimental Film by Gemma Files // Harvest Home by Thomas Tryon // The Owl Service by Alan Garner // Childgrave by Ken Greenhall // Dark Matter by Michelle Paver // Withered Hill by David Barnett // The Watchers by A.M. Shine // Starve Acre by Andrew Michael Hurley // Pet Sematary by Stephen King // The Singing Bone by Beth Haun // The Witches and The Grinnygogg (takes place at midsummer but whatever) // Ghost Wall by Sarah Moss // The Silent Companions by Laura Purcell

Please note that many, many books could be on such a list, but I am not listing something that I haven’t read. If you don’t see one of your favorites among these titles, that could be why.

2. Through food and drink

Autumn is a feast for the senses, and nowhere is this more apparent than in my kitchen. I love creating hearty harvest stews and soups that capture the essence of the season. Rich, velvety butternut squash bisques, chunky vegetable stews brimming with root vegetables and tender beef, and earthy mushroom soups with wild rice all make appearances. These concoctions, simmering with seasonal herbs and warming spices like sage, thyme, and nutmeg, infuse the house with an irresistible fragrance that seems to whisper, “Fall is here, motherfuckers.” Baking becomes a weekly ritual, with aromatic loaves emerging from the oven, their crusts crackling, and interiors soft and squishy and begging to be slathered in butter or to clean your stew bowl with.

Recipes that I often return to are: Chef John’s pumpkin-braised pork // Boeuf Bourguignon // butternut squash mac & cheese // pumpkin & kale curry // apple cider doughnut cake // brown butter pumpkin oatmeal latte cookies

Even fruits–of which I am not a fan–make their way onto my countertops: pomegranates, pears, and persimmons, oh my! I usually cook them down to a compote with citrus zest, sugar, and spices…and then I make Yvan eat it over yogurts or oatmeal. I love the way they make the kitchen smell, but I am not about to eat that shit.

But it’s not just about homemade treats. I’ve become something of an amateur barista–very crappy amateur kind that screws up your drink or forgets your order altogether– recreating and putting my own spin on popular coffee house autumnal menu drinks. From pumpkin spice lattes to brown sugar pecan cappuccinos to gingersnap dirty chai*, with every experimental cup, I am trying to recreate the feeling of this 2008 October afternoon when I took this photo, styling a pair of fingerless mitts that I knit with a huge mug of tea and a pot of chrysanthemums.

*Some of these are aspirational and made up, but I am working on it!

3. Through decor

When it comes to autumn decorating, I’m all about strategic minimalism. DIY projects? Not my thing. Instead, I opt for a few carefully chosen, eye-catching pieces that transform my space with minimal effort.

This year, I’ve adorned my front door with a whimsical mushroom welcome mat. Inside, a cutesy (bordering on twee, but I am okay with that) felt fall leaf garland drapes across my mantel. On the coffee table, you’ll find a glass pumpkin bowl filled with candy corn – and no hate for candy corn in this house! When I can find them at the store, a vase of autumnal blooms adds a touch of seasonal color.

My favorite decorations are two felted, weighted Halloween figures I snagged from Target a few years back. One’s pumpkin-headed, the other skull-faced, and they preside over my autumn domain with a quirky charm. You might catch them overlooking my latest seasonal cooking experiment, like my homemade pumpkinmallow sauce.

This approach to autumn decor suits me perfectly. It’s just enough to satisfy my craving for seasonal change without overwhelming my space or my energy levels. After all, the best kind of decorating is the kind that leaves plenty of time for enjoying the season itself.

These small touches of autumnal decor create a cozy atmosphere that makes me want to curl up with a good book and a warm drink, fully embracing the hygge spirit of the season.

4. Through music and film

I’ve got this autumn playlist that’s all shades of wistful and melancholy. To me, they’re all secretly riffing on Neil Young’s “Harvest Moon” or The Mamas & The Papas’ “California Dreamin’.” These two represent the different ends of my internal autumn spectrum – “Harvest Moon” with its mellow, relaxed vibe and “California Dreamin'” bringing a more intense, melodramatic feel. Everything else on the playlist seems to echo the magic of these two somehow…even if it’s gothy folk metal or experimental ambient electronica!

These songs intensify my natural introspection as if giving permission to fully embrace that side of myself. It’s become my little autumn ritual, a way to explore the depths of my thoughts as the world changes around me. And then, of course, there’s the Over the Garden Wall soundtrack – absolutely perfect in every way. Those folksy, slightly eerie tunes set the perfect mood for all my autumn activities, be it cooking, reading, or just watching the leaves turn.

I should note that this music is all pre-Halloween. Post-Halloween is completely different. November 1st and beyond gets gloomy, sonorous cellos. Unearthly violins. Ghostly theremins. Awash with mournful motifs and evocative of dusk fall grey and cold, eerie midnight winds and candlelit windows. I wrote more about this “Night Music” and shared several examples over on the bloodmilk blog several years ago.

When it comes to films, my autumn viewing leans heavily into the realm of the spooky and atmospheric. As the nights grow longer, I find myself drawn to movies that blend eerie vibes with that distinct autumnal feeling. John Carpenter’s Halloween is a perennial favorite – it’s practically a ritual to watch Michael Myers stalk through leaf-strewn streets as October draws near. For a more intense, party-gone-wrong vibe, Night of the Demons hits the spot with its deliciously ’80s take on Halloween horror. And when I’m in the mood for something more psychedelic and witchy, Rob Zombie’s Lords of Salem provides a trippy, unsettling journey that somehow feels perfectly aligned with those hazy, late autumn afternoons.

These films might not be everyone’s cup of tea, but for me, they capture something essential about the season – a mix of nostalgia, unease, and that weird, wonderful comfort found in embracing the darker, more mysterious aspects of fall. I’m especially excited for this autumn because I’ll be watching Something Wicked This Way Comes for the first time! I’ve heard it’s the perfect blend of dark fantasy and autumn atmosphere, and I can’t wait to add it to my fall repertoire. For the last several years I have done 31 Days of Horror, wherein I watch a scary movie every day and then blog about it, so if that piques your interest, check back next month when I get started on this year’s month-long marathon!

5. Through planting fall vegetables

Autumn isn’t just about harvesting; it’s also a time for planting. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself every year. The truth is, I’m not much of a gardener. The idea of getting my hands dirty in the cool earth and sowing seeds for fall vegetables is far more appealing than the actual act. I don’t test the soil, I never fertilize, pruning is a foreign concept, and more often than not, I forget to water. Any success I’ve had in growing anything is mostly due to dumb luck, despite Florida’s challenging climate.

But oh, how I love the idea of it all. Every autumn, I do the bare minimum – maybe toss some seeds into a pot or two – always thinking that any day now, a switch is going to flip and I’ll suddenly transform into this amazing, dedicated gardener who goes the extra mile. It hasn’t happened yet, but hope springs eternal. Or autumns eternal, as the case may be.

Being in Florida offers some unique opportunities for autumn planting, but it’s not without its challenges, even for experienced gardeners (which I am decidedly not). Our longer growing season is a double-edged sword – sure, we can plant later, but we also have to contend with intense heat that can scorch young plants and unpredictable rainfall that can either drown or parch them. Leafy greens like kale and spinach, or root vegetables such as carrots and beets, are supposed to be good for fall planting. I’ve thrown some of these seeds around before, and occasionally, against all odds and the whims of Florida weather, they’ve decided to grow.

The act of planting, minimal as it may be, still connects me to the idea of the cyclical nature of the seasons. It’s a reminder that in Florida, the rhythm of nature marches to a slightly different, and often challenging beat – perfect for aspiring gardeners who are long on dreams and short on follow-through, and who can appreciate the irony of trying to create autumn in a place that often feels like eternal summer.

6. Through cozy autumn clothing

When it comes to autumn fashion in Florida, forget the heavy sweaters and cozy scarves – sometimes even in October, we’re still sweating it out in the 90s. But that doesn’t mean I can’t bring a touch of fall to my wardrobe. It’s all about getting creative with lighter fabrics and subtle nods to the season.

My autumn wardrobe conjuring act starts with warm harvest colors. A russet-colored cardigan becomes my go-to layer for overzealous air conditioning, easily removed when I step back into the Florida heat. Underneath, you’ll find me in t-shirts that hint at autumn’s darker side without screaming “Halloween!” (Although I do have at least one really good one.) There’s my favorite bat conservation tee, a subtle nod to the season’s flying mammals. Horror movie tees make regular appearances – nothing says “fall is coming” quite like a vintage Cryptkeeper graphic. And for other days, I’ve got my enthusiasm literally spelled out, on my “the season for goblins and witches is upon us” tee. And when the temps drop to at least 70, I am throwing on my Haunted sweatshirt from Altar & Orb!

Accessories are where the real autumn magic happens. Ghost socks make an appearance, peeking out from under my sandals (sandals in autumn – Florida life!). Earrings with tiny autumn leaves and clackering bones, or a light scarf with a subtle spiderweb pattern add that autumnal touch without causing heat stroke.

Layering becomes an art form, but with a lighter touch. That russet cardigan might find its way over a mustard-yellow tank top, or I might opt for a thin, flowing kimono-style cover-up over my Brett Manning-illustrated dress. (P.S. Brett’s artwork is in my book The Art of Fantasy, and you can read more about this artist here.) The goal is to channel those cozy autumn vibes without adding too much warmth – it’s all about creating the illusion of fall layers while staying cool in the relentless heat.

The key is to embrace the spirit of the season without letting the thermometer dictate my style entirely. It might not be the traditional autumn look, but it’s my way of thumbing my nose at the persistent summer and welcoming fall on my own terms.

7. Through evocative fragrances

Scent is a powerful trigger for memories and moods, and I use it to manifest autumn regardless of the weather outside. When it comes to personal fragrances, I’m drawn to scents that evoke those impossibly dark nights when the veil between worlds feels thin, and every shadow might be hiding something otherworldly.

This year, I’m revisiting some favorites from last year’s autumn fragrance lineup. Zoologist Bat, with its damp earth and overripe fruit notes, captures the essence of early autumn evenings. Chris Collins’ Autumn Rhythm brings to mind the rhythmic crunch of leaves underfoot and the incense of chilled smoke clinging to a cashmere sweater in a sophisticated fragrance that is the epitome of Ray Bradbury’s “autumn people–” if they were monied and super posh.

This year, I’m adding Neil Morris’s Chasing Autumn to my autumnal rotation: a fragrance that captures the essence of the autumn I’ve always yearned for while living in Florida’s endless summer, evoking Millais’ melancholic “Autumn Leaves,” Emily Brontë’s invocational poetry, and the underlying eerie atmosphere of “Over the Garden Wall” – all distilled into a scent that brings to life crackling bonfires, rustling leaves, and the slightly foreboding mystery of an autumnal otherworld, allowing me to immerse myself in the fall feeling that exists more in my mind than in my subtropical reality.

On the lighter side of my autumn fragrance spectrum, I’m also incorporating Tartan by Sarah Baker Perfumes: a scent that deftly balances the sweetness of October with acrid leather and peaty whiskey, conjuring images of wooly moss, molten gold sunlight, and migrating geese – a fragrance that reveals different facets with each wearing, much like the ever-changing moods of autumn itself.

And, of course, I can’t talk about autumnal fragrances without mentioning the Weenies (Halloween and autumn scents) from Black Phoenix Alchemy Lab. They are the premier no.1 experts in conjuring the olfactory enchantments of the autumn season. Every year, they explore strange new depths in diablerie to bring us perfumes that conjure dead leaf-maple ghost-pumpkin blood-moon hag-scented nightmares, and I am eagerly anticipating this year’s collection! I have a feeling it will be available any day now. Wearing, musing upon, and penning reviews of these fragrances is a staple of my Halloween season, and if you are curious about what you can look forward to, here is nearly 10 years’ worth of BPAL Weenie reviews to peruse: 2023 // 2022 // 2021 // 2020 // 2019 // 2018 // 2017 // 2016 

While I don’t love pumpkin spice perfumes, I do seek them out in candles. There’s something comforting about filling my home with the warm, spicy aroma of pumpkin, cinnamon, and nutmeg. It’s like being enveloped in the essence of autumn, even when the temperature outside says otherwise. I’ll often light a pumpkin spice candle while curled up with a book, creating my own little autumn oasis.

By surrounding myself with these evocative scents, I can close my eyes and be transported to an autumnal wonderland, regardless of the actual season outside my window. It’s a small act of olfactory rebellion against Florida’s persistent summer, and a cherished part of my autumn ritual.

8. Through comforting knitting projects

As the days grow shorter, I find myself reaching for my knitting needles more often. There’s something inherently autumnal about the rhythmic click of needles and the soft yarn running through my fingers. This year, I’m working on a new cozy shawl project, after nine months of letting my wrist heal! The act of creating something warm and comforting feels like the perfect way to usher in the season.

My current project is a simple shawl, perfect for easing my sore wrist back into the craft. I’m using two strands of laceweight yarn held together – one an obsidian cashmere, the other a smoky silver-grey silk. The combination creates a foggy night effect that feels quintessentially autumnal. It’s not a huge or intricate project, but there’s something so meditative and lovely about the simple, repetitive stitches.

I find myself working on this shawl in the evenings while watching Evil – a show that perfectly complements the mood of my knitting. As I loop yarn around my needles, I’m drawn into a world where the lines between science and the supernatural blur, where skepticism and faith collide. The show’s eerie atmosphere and moral ambiguity create an oddly fitting backdrop for crafting a cozy shawl.

There’s something about the perpetually autumn/winter atmosphere of Evil that I find irresistible. The Bouchard’s house under the train trestle, the grey skies, and bare trees create a gloomy yet perfect backdrop that feels like the autumn I’m always chasing. Sure, the show can be a little goofy at times, but it’s compelling nonetheless. Its visual palette of perpetual autumn is a stark contrast to the endless summer outside my window, making it the perfect companion to my knitting sessions. Michael Emerson as Leland Townsend is a maniacal treat–and HOW does he look exactly the same as he did 20 years ago in Lost??

9. Through mindful nature walks

Even in Florida, where autumn’s touch is subtle, I make an effort to connect with nature and spot the small signs of the changing season. My neighborhood, graced with many old oak trees (about half of which are in my very own yard…or at least it feels like that when I am cleaning up post-hurricane detritus), provides the perfect setting for these mindful walks.

I prefer to venture out in the liminal hours – just before sunrise or as the sun is setting. Partly to avoid the brutal heat of the evil day star, but also as a squirrelly introvert, I just don’t like people looking at me. These quiet hours offer a cocoon of solitude, allowing me to immerse myself fully in the experience.

Our proximity to the river adds another layer to these walks. The air feels different near the water, carrying a hint of moisture and the promise of cooler days. From the back of the neighborhood, which overlooks a major bridge, I can see the headlights of early morning commuters – a distant sign of life as I stand in the pre-dawn quiet.

In these hours, my familiar surroundings transform. I observe slight shifts in the oak leaves, watching for subtle changes that signal the season’s turn. The quality of light itself becomes a marker of autumn’s approach, its angle shifting almost imperceptibly as summer wanes. Migrating birds, their silhouettes dark against the sky, offer the most reliable signs of autumn’s arrival.

These walks are a mindful practice, grounding me in the subtle seasonal shifts that might otherwise pass unnoticed. Surrounded by ancient oaks and with the river nearby, I can almost convince myself that autumn has truly arrived, even as the day’s heat waits just around the corner.

10. Through Autumn Reflection and Renewal

As the leaves sloo-owly change and the year winds down, autumn offers a gentle invitation for introspection, quiet goal-setting, and subtle personal renewal. This season of transition, with its sense of things drawing to a close, naturally inclines us towards observation, reflection, and preparation for the coming quietude. This is where it gets a little cheesy, but stick with me here; it’s all in service of ushering in a big autumn mood.

This year, I’m cautiously embracing the reflective spirit of autumn in a few ways. Autumn-themed journaling is on my list, though I’m almost too self-conscious to admit it. I’ve got a few fall-themed writing prompts that I’m considering; this is where things get really cheesy, and I’m slightly mortified to be sharing this, but… I might actually ponder questions like, “What would I like to let go of, like leaves falling from a tree?” and “If my life were a harvest, what fruits am I reaping now?” I might even describe my perfect autumn day, from dawn to dusk, even if it’s more fantasy than reality here in Florida. (I can feel myself cringing as I type this, but there’s something about autumn that makes even this level of sentimentality seem almost acceptable.)

I’m also setting some autumn goals, channeling that residual “back to school” energy into my own little “Fall Semester.” I’ve got three specific objectives in mind:

First, reading – I’m always reading, typically juggling half a dozen fictional stories on my e-reader at any given time. But for autumn, I’m making a concerted effort to dive into some nonfiction, which I prefer to read in physical form at my desk (it’s easier on the wrists and eyes, you know?). I’ve got Katherine May’s Wintering and Robert Macfarlane’s The Old Ways lined up. May’s exploration of the power of rest and retreat seems particularly fitting for the season, while Macfarlane’s deep dive into ancient paths and the human connection to landscape feels like the perfect companion for my autumnal musings.

Second, cooking – I want to try my hand at making pozole. It’s a rich, warming stew with flavors I don’t typically cook with, and I’m eager to expand my culinary horizons. There’s something about the combination of hominy, meat, and aromatic spices that feels perfect for those rare cooler days we might get. Plus, the process of preparing it – the slow simmering, the melding of flavors – seems like a meditative autumn activity in itself.

Lastly, bird watching – Here’s the thing – I was born 90 years old. I’ve always been an old soul, and I’ve finally decided to lean into it by getting serious about bird watching. As the autumn migrations begin, I’ll be out there with my binoculars, probably wearing a cardigan and sensible shoes, learning to identify the species that pass through Florida. I’m settling into being the charming eccentric I was always destined to be, and I’m not even mad about it.

These goals are my way of embracing the season’s introspective energy, even if the weather outside doesn’t quite match the autumnal mood I’m cultivating. Between the books, the new culinary adventure, and my newfound ornithological pursuits, I’ll be living my best autumn life, Florida style.

Bonus: Through the Magic of Art

Oh, how could I forget? ART. This post is liberally peppered with autumnal paintings ranging from the Pre-Raphaelites to still lifes, to fairytale illustrations. Because if I can’t have real autumn leaves outside my window, I can at least feast my eyes on rendered ones, right? I really shouldn’t have forgotten art, because I did a whole-ass blog post about it only two years ago!

I’ve included works like John Melhuish Strudwick’s “A Story Book,” which captures that cozy, introspective autumn mood I’m constantly chasing. There’s Arthur Rackham’s “A Dish of Apples,” because nothing says fall like a a couple of creepy goblins and an apple tree. John Atkinson Grimshaw’s “An October Afterglow” gives us that perfect melancholic autumn twilight that Florida stubbornly refuses to deliver.

For a more whimsical take, there’s Giuseppe Arcimboldo’s “Autumn,” because sometimes you just need to see a face made of seasonal produce to really get into the fall spirit. And, of course, what’s an autumn art collection without Andrew Wyeth’s iconic “Autumn,” capturing the stark beauty of the season in a way that makes me yearn desperately for bitingly crisp air the crunch of leaves underfoot, and a crow cawing for your attentuion just outside the frame?

These paintings serve as windows into the autumn of my imagination, portals to a season that exists more in my mind than in my subtropical reality. They’re a visual manifestation of the fall feels I’m trying to conjure, proof that even if I can’t change the weather, I can at least change the view.

What autumn rituals do you practice to welcome the season? Share your favorite ways to manifest fall in the comments below!

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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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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Happy birthday to my three beloved art books, published in Septembers 2020, 2022, and 2023!

Let’s take a moment to appreciate these visual feasts that explore the mystical, the dark, and the fantastical.

✨ The Art of the Occult: A Visual Sourcebook For The Modern Mystic (2020)
A journey through the esoteric and spiritual in art, from theosophy to sacred geometry. This book showcases how artists have been drawn to the mystical, creating works that transcend time and place.

“The Art of the Occult crosses mystical spheres in a bid to inspire and delight, acting as a light introduction to the art of mysticism.”

✨ The Art of Darkness: A Treasury Of The Morbid, Melancholic & Macabre (2022)
Dive into the shadows with this exploration of how artists have grappled with the darker aspects of the human condition. From the haunting to the horrifying, this book asks: what comfort can be found in facing our demons?

“We deny our inner darkness at our own peril. This book invites us to sit for a while with these shadows – from the safety of our armchairs.”

✨ The Art of Fantasy: A Visual Sourcebook Of All That Is Unreal (2023)
Embark on a magical journey through the realms of imagination. From mermaids to mythical creatures, this book celebrates the fantastical visions that have captivated artists throughout history.

“Our most madcap adventures and extraordinary flights of fancy – this is the fabulous realm of fantasy, and the spectrum of fantastic art is an abundant, richly diverse wonderland to explore.”

These books are more than just curations of art – they’re gateways to other worlds, invitations to explore the depths of human creativity and imagination. Whether you’re drawn to the mystical, the macabre, or the magical, there’s a book in this trio for you.
Find them here or grab a signed copy here and join me in celebrating these weird little art goblins and the windows they open into extraordinary realms!

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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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