The other day, I was video chatting with my walking buddy, Jo, about viruses and plagues—what else?—and I explained (with no shortage of passion) how if humanity is to be ended by pandemic, this whole get-put-on-a-ventilator-for-weeks-until-life-slowly-drains-out-of-you gets a giant Boo Hiss from me. The human race warrants a more proficient viral assassin, I said. Like maybe a heartstopper. Something fast, but not too gross.

 Originally published by 49 Writers. Photo by Clark Fair.

I was a teen in 1990s Soldotna, Alaska—the setting for my debut novel—so people often ask me if The Ocean in My Ears is a thinly disguised memoir. The short

Because the world can be a jaded place.

Margaret Atwood’s themes of survival, images of the body, and the implicit questions about what it means to be female reached inside me and shook me. Slowly, on the cusp of twenty years old, I began to wake from a dark, oblivious sleep.

I did a big dumb thing today. Bigger than regular, I mean.

Today was busy. I’m still adjusting to my new job–this is week four–and every day my brain is rapidly recording new names and faces, the organization’s processes and systems, and all the little things:  how to make the printer staple, where the bathrooms

No, this isn’t Magic Kingdom. It’s the Wizarding World of Harry Potter. And I want that magical mess remover.

I try not to make a habit of wanting things, especially the desire-in-my-loins-can’t-sleep-until-I-have-it kind of want. Because wanting something THAT bad creates the possibility of profound disappointment, and like most humans, I’m averse

I’ve come to greatly admire my daughter’s cello teacher. The woman is unrelentingly positive. And good at playing cello. During the teacher’s lesson my daughter’s fingers move deftly over the cello’s four strings, as if under a spell, and I’m shocked at how the sounds often don’t match those made at our house.

I don’t know squat about playing

Things are happening in my country. Bad and probably good things, but mostly big and heavy and hard to carry things. Everyone’s “taking a stand,” posting rants and heartfelt messages and quoting dead people. A few are actually doing something—walking in marches and holding candles.

But not me. I’m just sitting here grinding

I’m in a real temper. Little things have piled up–solicitors and criminals and things that need fixing–such that I’m completely hair-pulling-unable-to-cope-with-life mega angry AAAAAAAAAH!

But I don’t need to punch or overpower or behead anybody, right? I can just slump over, make my ugly face, and tell you.

Ahem.

Today’s List of Foul Stuff

My broken-in-half pear

Dear Universe,
Thanks for this morning’s eye-burning sunrise because when we got into the car, Only was like, “I’m so cold I feel like I’m naked in a snowbank,” even though it’s fifty degrees outside and she’s wearing a flannel, but because middle school is the Land of Extremes, she clacks her teeth, blasts

Not that I need an excuse to blow shit off, but blogging (re: my lack of) has taken a back seat to this whole novel-writing thingy. I go to sleep thinking about my Other World and my People. I wake up all itchy to know what’s happening with them.

Kinda like

Forever ago I interviewed Carrie Mesrobian about her fabulous debut (released October 2013), and I’m thrilled to report that both readers and critics are gaga over Sex and Violence. Now go buy it.

Thanks to Carrie, I had the chance to gab with another fantastic debut author this week. Christa Desir’s novel