Doubt Is Spelled F-U-C-K Y-O-U

Kind of sneaks up on you doesn’t it?

Like a malaria-dousing mosquito or the herp, doubt is one soft-footed bastard. Comes at the most unexpected times, too. Say, for example, you had a busy, PRODUCTIVE, day. You wrote double your usual word count (fuck yeah, go you!), you got laundry done (domesticity! You’re a grown up!), and you even sent a few emails to important people who could possibly bring you a little closer to being an Important Person (more grown up things! Hooray!). Then, the second you have a second to actually THINK about things…


Doubt. That sick, evil bastard cackles behind your left ear (because, let’s face it, you’re getting old and the hearing in your right ear is probably going) and it’s all you can do to keep from crying out for mommy.

Okay, so it’s not you. It’s me. The Doubt Monster visited me today. It took up residence in my frontal lobe and made itself a nice cup of hazelnut coffee. Fucker. And do you know what it told me?

“That whole agent thing? Not going to happen.”

“You might as well just settle for mediocrity because, BITCH, you’ve got it in spades.”

“That haircut is a little out of date, isn’t it?”

“Seriously, though. Don’t quit your day job. Like, ever.”


So what do you–excuse me, *I*–do? Do I crawl under the kitchen table with my nappy and a binky that I may or may not still have from my soft-headed formative years? Do I climb to the tallest room in the tallest tower and throw my work (the paper versions, anyway) to litter the ground like sad, sad, depression confetti?



No, I get on the trusty compooter-machine and log into the interwebz where I can share my pain with all of you. Because you care.

You do care, don’t you?


Thanks for the hug. I needed that. Let’s have some whiskey.

Mmm whiskey.

Social Media: A Poem

Joan Rivers is finally dead,

Perfectly preserved in her silk-lined bed.

The “beat-up Ferguson cop”

Is just some white dude, stop

Finding things to be offended by.

It’s all going to piss you off;

PC-ness has made us all soft.

Buzzfeed quizzes spill through:

What does your shit shape say about you?

Robin Williams died, too.

Won’t touch that one, will you?

Photo leaks and breast tweaks,

I’ve seen nothing worth anything in weeks.

Chelsea Cain flipped her shit.

All us writers ran away with it.

How dare she say what’s on her mind,

Leave it there for all of us to find,

And steamroll with accusations of anger

Without so much as a thought to what pains her?

I agree with you, she’s fucking crazy.

But is it her fault her fingers aren’t too lazy

To answer the siren call of the net

Rather than vent to a friend or a pet?

Narcissism fuels a stream of posts:

Selfies and gym check-ins and instagram photos,

If it were possible to bomb the hub—

Just kidding, Feds, don’t lock me up.

Some dude drank a bottle of jack;

Surprised himself when he had to yak.

This is what passes for news today

(Looking at you, Gawker, I fucking hate you).

I know that didn’t rhyme.

Thanks for that captain obvious.

The rest probably won’t either,

Because you’ve pissed me offvious.

Point is, we puke into the void

Hoping you, though, annoyed

Will latch onto our echoes

And buy our fucking books because that’s WHY WE’RE HERE, DAMMIT, TO WRITE BOOKS YOU READ AND…


Social media sucks. Buy my book.

*drops mic*