It’s that time of year. NaNo is over, the whiskey is poured, and it’s time for some fuckin’ cookies.

An author friend, S.M. Carriere, slapped my face with this sticky note that said “make me cookies, bitch.” I don’t bake, so instead I promised to share a recipe for my favorite holiday cookies PROVIDED she doesn’t sneak into my apartment anymore.

Please be warned– Because I am a shit, this recipe will call for specialized equipment. Namely, a pizzelle maker. It looks like this:


Pretty cool, right? My grandmother had one that looked so old it looked like it could fall apart at any minute. I was FASCINATED with the thing. When she made pizzelles I stood so close to the iron I practically burned my nose on it They’re THAT good.

Now for the recipe:

Ish you will need:

  • 6 eggs
  • 4 cups of flour
  • 1.5 cups of sugar
  • 1 cup of butter, melted and cooled
  • 4 teaspoons of baking powder
  • 3 tablespoons star anise extract
  • 1 tablespoon vanilla extract

Ish you need to do with all that ish:

1. Beat the eggs then add sugar gradually. Add it all at once and all you get are lumps. Lumps are assholes. Make it frothy and pretty.

2. Add butter and both extracts to the mixture. My grandmother used anise seeds too. They added some texture to the batter which I really like.

3. Add sifted flour and baking powder to the mixture. Stir with a spoon, otherwise, if you’re like me, you’ll get flour everywhere except in the damn bowl.

4. Drop about 1 tablespoon of the finished batter onto the iron and cook until golden brown.

5. Dust with powdered sugar.

6. NOM.


Oh, also, I have to tag people for this.

Renee Miller, because she doesn’t bake. Hanna Elizabeth, because duh. Also Forbes West and Travis Mohrman. Lets see what weirdness they come up with.

Something, Something Title Whatever

As I sit here tweaking the next draft of my latest MS, I can’t help but think that this is the THIRD book I’ve managed to write in two years.

I’m no James Patterson, but that’s a fuck ton of words.

And then I’m overwhelmed by this weird sadness.

I think, I’ve devoted so much time to this writing life–not just the two years of solid writing, but another 4 years of learning how to do it in the first place. I’ve poured so much of what I see as my identity into this title–WRITER–that the moment I deviate from the routine, or think for even a minute that I’d want to do something else with my day, I start to lose myself.

I get depressed.

I think, what if this isn’t what I’m supposed to do? What if I’m not good enough? What if this shit-shoveling I manage to do on a semi-daily basis is a waste of time?

It’s not. I know it’s not. At least, the lizard part of my brain knows it’s not. I always come around.

But sometimes…

Sometimes it’s harder than others.

Today. Today, it’s hard.

Do me a favor and write a few awesome words. Throw me some wordsmith karma.