Writing is not a checklist

I recently saw this on Pinterest:

 

At first, it seemed like a pretty legitimate way to approach writing.

But then I saw it again…and again…and again…and the more I reread it, the less I agreed with it. The more I saw it, read through it, and thought about it, the more it bugged me.

This isn’t how I write.

And I understand that everyone has a different style of what works for them when it comes to writing. And I understand that the author is a screenwriter, but this post is clearly aimed at all forms of writing fiction.

Here’s the thing: this post makes writing so formulaic. Do this. Think this way. Then write.

For people who use outlines, who take a logical, planned-out approach to writing, maybe this checklist works.

But I love letting scenes write themselves. I love sitting in front of a blank page on my laptop with only a vague understanding of the beginning of a scene and seeing what happens. My most creative characters, plot lines, and discoveries have been born from scenes I didn’t know I was writing until they were written. I wrote my entire novel Devil May Care with no outline; it was literally a short story I wrote a few pages of a year ago, then decided to pick up and finish, that turned into a 110,000 word book. Does this mean that my summer of editing will be more work? Of course. But I believe that if I had taken John August’s route, of careful planning before I hit the keyboard, I never would have gotten the depth of plot or characters that developed from simply wandering through a blank page and the expanse of my mind.

The first steps are useful, I guess. They set up the exposition for the author and establish the goals and components of the scene. But even that is more than I usually do. What characters will be in the scene are the ones that decide to show up. What is the worst thing that can happen will occur to me when I’m knee-deep into the scene with my main character, watching it unfold around us. The most surprising thing that could happen will not be the first point I think of when I sit down to write, it will be something I stumble upon. Three ways it could begin? Sure, why not? But even that I wouldn’t spend very much time on it. I want to start writing.

The length of the scene (#6) is a variable that I don’t really care about–again, I don’t know what is going to happen, why am I giving myself a word limit? And on #2, the dangers of omitting the scene? Why would I dwell on that when I haven’t figured out what amazing plot points the scene will reveal to me? #8 and #9 are useless and almost debilitating for my creative process based on blind discovery. #10 is obvious.

#11 is an arbitrary guestimate at how many scenes a book/screenplay will have. Yet again, there is no reason to set number limits or goals when going into a project–let it figure itself out.

Clearly there is a major difference between John August’s and my own approach to writing. His is formulaic, planned out, logical, orderly. I relish in the discovery of writing. Maybe I sound like a crazy person, but my characters tell me what they want to do in any given scene. They nudge me in the right direction of a surprising reveal or an awkward confrontation. I love this.

If you write with a checklist, go for it. But I’ll keep my method. Writing should surprise the author as much as it surprises the reader. If we go to the keyboard with everything planned out, where is the room for suspense, surprise, reveal, or discovery?

I don’t want to know what I’m getting into when I set out to write a scene, a short story, a novel, or even a blog post. It’s like this:

the hallway you walked through

And I like it this way.

 

 

Hell and Styx #9: Where Are You From?

And now to rewind for Hell and Styx #9…

This story takes place when Hell is fifteen (almost 16), between H+S #3 (Dragons in Shining Armor) and the Wainscott plot line (H+S 4567, and 8).

As always, an explanation of what the heck this series of short stories is can be found on their page, which you can get to in the upper right hand corner.

Hope you enjoy!

Hell and Styx #9: Where Are You From?

It didn’t seem like Hell should have a lot of free time on her hands. She was charged with delivering souls to hell, and people just kept dying.

But purgatory was massive. The size of three or four ballrooms, it could easily accommodate a build up of souls if Hell needed a break—to think, to shower, to try to fall asleep.

It didn’t feel massive. It didn’t even feel big. To Hell, it was a cage, shrinking every day she spent in it. She had long since memorized every crack in the walls, the exact number of steps it took to haul a soul from one place to the nearest crack. She knew everything there was to know about purgatory, except anything that mattered. The why. The how. The who-designed-it and the where-is-it. The why-me and the why-not-someone-else.

But to make up for all those unknowns Hell’s mind obsessed over other details, memorizing and categorizing, until purgatory didn’t feel massive. It felt tiny. It was so known, so familiar, that Hell forgot how large it was, only seeing the fact that she had never left it, except to go to her room, or Styx’s, and weren’t they just another part of purgatory? It mocked her with its smallness, the ceiling lowering, the walls pressing in with every moment she spent in it.

And the souls with their slimy, tar-y blackness, that clung to her skin and made her feel like puking, like ripping off her skin would be the only way to be clean. So she shoved them into hell as fast as she could but a few screams escaped, sticking to the oily darkness, haunting her. The walls pressed closer and Hell needed to get out, get out of the pit of the dead.

Hell was fifteen and it had gotten so bad that she could only stay in purgatory for a few hours before she had to rush to her room. She only ever let herself have a few minutes, to catch her breath, to loosen the knot in her chest, to get the ringing screams out of her mind, before she went back.

Today, Hell let herself lie on her bed, staring at the ceiling. The lights in her room were off; that was how she liked to keep them. Purgatory was always bright, despite there being no source of light, besides the gray walls and abundance of the dead. After a minute, Hell sat up, grabbing a hair tie, and put her hair up, twisting to see the tiny mirror she hung to the right of her bed.

Even when all of her hair was pulled back and secured, Hell felt scattered. A drug cartel died that morning and she had had to grab each of them and shove them into hell. There souls were some of the worst she had touched in a while, and their deaths—violent, bloody, screaming, gunfire, and rage—replayed in her mind. She didn’t mean to see how they died, but she didn’t have enough self control to block it out.

Styx did, she knew.

But Styx didn’t have to fend off black, sludgy souls and he didn’t have to listen to the screams from hell as she shoved another person into its depths. Styx had more free time to build up his resistance.

“Fuck him,” Hell cursed, falling back onto her bed.

“Oh, is that how it is these days?”

Hell bolted upright, flying off her bed and into a defensive crouch. She stared at the intruder.

Blond hair, that awkward length between a buzzcut and…regular hair (Hell didn’t know the correct wording, and, wow, she didn’t care). Tall, taller than Styx, maybe six foot seven or eight. Pale skin and gray-green eyes. Dress pants and a white collared shirt rolled up to the elbows. Something like a smirk that made a face that could be incredibly attractive hideous.

Hell had never seen him before in her life.

Hell did not ask, “Who are you?”

She asked, “How did you get in here?” because he couldn’t answer it without giving away who she was, and she would get more information out of him without him noticing.

“I live here,” he said.

“You really don’t.”

“I do now.”

“Doesn’t work like that.” Hell clenched her fists, thinking back to the self-defense divine knowledge from a few years ago, gifted to her after a mob boss knocked her out when she tried to send him where he belonged. Since then, Hell had gotten very good at using it. She wondered if this guy had any idea.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets and shrugged helplessly. “It kinda does.”

God, that arrogance. Hell longed to rip it right off his face, but she wasn’t ready to give up on her vocal interrogation yet. “Sorry, did I take the No Assholes Allowed sign off my door? Let me just replace it and you can be on your way the hell out of here.”

And of all the things he could have done—

He laughed. “‘The hell out of here,’” he repeated to himself. “Wow you appreciate word play, don’t you, Hell?”

He probably expected Hell to freeze, to panic, to blurt out, “You know my name?”

Hell knew this, knew that he didn’t see her as a lethal weapon but as a little girl cowering from an intruder, and she decided to demonstrate that she wasn’t cowering, she was in attack mode. So she lunged forward, grabbing one of his arms and twisting it behind him, slamming her elbow into his throat and shoving him against her wall. With her other hand she grabbed his remaining arm and shoved it behind him, where the other one already was.

He gasped with pain, his eyes bugging as Hell slowly let him run out air. If he was a dead soul, he would pass out. They still had the same need for air that they did as humans. And if he was—by some far stretch of the possible—like Hell and Styx, he wouldn’t need much air to survive. And Hell knew exactly how much pressure to apply to keep death’s gatekeepers conscious.

(She had practiced on Styx a few years ago when he asked in a very crude way if her red hair was natural.)

The guy was an idiot.

He kept gasping for air like a human, even when he clearly did not lose consciousness. So he was clearly not a dead soul. But he was also…confused.

Finally, Hell settled on kneeing him in the crotch and backing up.

It took him a pathetically long time to recover.

If this was his new home, he seriously needed to get a higher pain tolerance. Like Styx.

Styx.

Oh shit.

Panic burst alive in Hell.

If this guy was here, and apparently moving in, then—was he Styx? Was he a new Styx? Was he replacing Styx?

No, no, no, no, no, no—

Styx had to be fine. Styx couldn’t be dead, or moved on, or whatever it was happened to Hell’s type when disappeared. But Hell didn’t know how any of this worked, and Styx was the only other gatekeeper she knew of, and if this guy was here—

“Are you Styx?”

The crumpled human form got in enough air to laugh and said, “No.”

“Then who are you?”

The guy had the nerve to smile arrogantly again and wink, as he said, “I’m Heaven.”

Hell and Styx #8: Echo-Echo-Echo…

And Hell and Styx #8 shows up to the party fashionably late. The actual conclusion to the first Wainscott plot line, seen in H+S numbers 4, 5, 6, and 7. I decided this part of the story needed one more quick scene to tie it up.

As always, the full chronological list of stories can be found at the Hell and Styx page (also in the upper right hand corner) as well as an explanation was to what this series of stories is.

Hell and Styx #8: Echo-Echo-Echo…

Styx flashed into existence in Hell’s room, his hand clamped around Hell’s wrist, forcing her to materialize with him. Hell did, jerking away from him, barley containing her reflex to slap him.

Styx tried to find the words to describe the idea of thinking you know where everything in your world is and then finding part of it gone. “What the hell was that?”

“Nothing!” Hell sputtered. “Maybe—something.”

“Definitely something! I hit a—thing!” Styx, in the midst of his anger, realized he didn’t remember what he slammed his hand into.

“This guy—”

“Was a priest.”

“Yeah, I figured that out.”

“And he could see us.”

Hell stomped away from him, proving her corporality by tripping over every piece of clothing littering her floor. “Gosh, really, is that what was happening? I couldn’t tell. Thanks for enlightening me, jackass.”

Styx gaped at Hell, even after fifteen years with her still amazed by her capacity for not getting it. “How?”

“I don’t know!”

“No, not how could he see us. That’s…just weird.”

“Then what?”

“How are angry at me?”

“I’m Hell. You’re Styx. I’m angry. At you.”

“You were just at your dad’s funeral, then you were gone. Across the country, actually. With a really old guy who can see us.”

“You’re back to the seeing us thing,” Hell said, refusing to entertain the possibility that Styx was talking about anything else.

“Maybe I am. You have an explanation for it?”

“Nope.”

“Me neither.”

“You spend more time on Earth than I do. Is this a priest thing?”

“Definitely not.”

Hell didn’t delve into how definitely he knew that. “Have you ever been seen?”

“No. I’d have told you.”

(Styx didn’t know that he had already spawned twelve ghost stories in five different languages over the course of his travels. But eventually Hell and Styx would have a competition based around it.)

Styx paused.

“Wait—were you going to tell me about this?”

Hell didn’t pause; she ran right past the question. “How did you find me?”

“It was like finding purgatory—that pull.”

Hell remembered she already knew the answer but she wasn’t about to tell him about the out-of-her-body learn-what-it’s-like-to-be-Styx experience she had earlier.

“Thanks. I’ve always wanted to be compared to a place where dead people go to rot.”

“Your name is Hell!”

“And you’re talking, Styx?”

“Back to the seeing us thing!”

“What is there to say? We’re both clueless. Good for us.”

“Are you going to see him again?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“I don’t know!”

“You don’t know?”

“Would you stop that?”

“Stop what?”

“The fucking echoing.”

“The what echoing?” Styx asked, a smirk on his face.

Hell tried to glare.

She really did.

But then she was laughing and Styx hugged her again just to make sure she was back.

A thought occurred to Styx. “You know who we could ask—”

“Don’t say his name,” Hell said, not willing to let go of her good mood.

“Yeah, him,” Styx said, glad they were on the same page. “Heaven.”

Book Review: The Mediator series by Meg Cabot

As I’m still waist-deep in The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay I thought I would review another paranormal series I read a while ago: Meg Cabot’s The Mediator series (book one: Shadowland).

These books, like a lot of Meg Cabot’s books, are just plain fun. Buffy-the-Vampire-Slayer-esque, they are a mix of chicklit and paranormal romance. It seems like a long series, but all the books string together and they read fast, making the series what I call “popcorn books” (books you read quickly, like eating popcorn). The romance is sweet and funny. The characters come alive and make you laugh. The books’ plots are ridiculous but ensnaring. Some of the books in the middle of the series aren’t quite as good, but by the time she ended the series, Meg Cabot got her act together again, giving the series one of the most perfect, sweetest endings of any series EVER. Seriously, just rereading the last few pages can make me tear up. My sister and I agree it is worth reading all six books for the last twenty pages–that’s how good they are.

I read them about a year ago, but I remember how much I enjoyed reading them. They’re a nice, lighthearted break between the dark and dramatic books I read. Definitely worth checking out.

The series on Amazon:

Shadowland (book 1), Ninth Key (book 2), Reunion (book 3), Darkest Hour (book 4), Haunted (book 5), Twilight (book 6)

Book Review: Die for Me (series) by Amy Plum

I’m STILL reading The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay and it looks like I will be sometime in June so I decided to go back to some of my favorite books and review them for you guys. (By the way, Kavalier and Clay is awesome. It’s just crazy long and I’m a little short on spare reading time right now.)

So, I present Amy Plum’s Revenant series: Die for Me, Until I Die, If I Should Die, and the novella Die for Her. Pure, amazing paranormal romance, done with originality and emotion. In a good way.

I read the first book about a year and a half ago, I think. The trilogy wasn’t all out yet, so I finished the books later, maybe a year ago, maybe less. I’m not quite sure. I don’t remember every little detail but I do remember how much I loved reading them. The story starts right after the main character loses her parents and goes to live with her grandparents in Paris. Her depression and isolation is powerful without being overwhelming to the plot of the story–it feels real without monopolizing what the series is about (AKA it’s not a John Green novel). Her romance with Vincent is emotional and touching, pulling the reader in in a way few romances can. And the paranormal side of the story–I’m not giving you any spoilers, but look at the titles. There’s death involved. It’s original and a little wacky but somehow Amy Plum makes it work.

(PS I just realized the Amazon synopsis kind of sucks. A lot. I’ll supplement it with this:

Girl spends her days losing herself in books in a Parisian cafe to avoid dealing with the loss of her parents. Suddenly starts to notice Incredibly  Attractive Male and his Incredibly Attractive Friends. Very very very very weird things ensue. Love, death, friendship, betrayal, reader’s-heart-ripped-out-and-sacrificed-to-an-obscure-Mayan-god follow.

Bleh that’s not good either is it? I guess the book is indescribable…just read it already.)

The characters were alive and addictive in that no-you-can’t-die-again-don’t-leave-me way I love. The plot was tumultuous and captivating. The romance is heart-wrenching and incredibly sweet at the same time. The whole series has the same feel to it (I don’t know how to describe that…it’s mood mixed with tone mixed with lots of other stuff) which is something I respect after reading James Patterson’s Maximum Ride series. (A cautionary tale titled: If you want to change your writing focus, start a new series, not a new book in this used-to-be-awesome series.)

Hope you guys check these books out.

And a little bit of shameless advertising: I’m an Amazon Associate now, which means that if you guys use the links in my blog to buy any of the books I talk about, I get a (very small) portion of the costs. Think of it as a thank you gift for my recommending a book to you.

Hell and Styx #7: I’m Fine

Drum roll please…Hell and Styx #7!

And the conclusion to the first Wainscott scene. YAY!

It’s a shorter one this time. Backstory found in H+S #4, #5, and #6. These can be found on the Hell and Styx page in the upper right hand corner, as well as a description as to what in the heck this series is. Enjoy!

Hell and Styx #7: I’m Fine

Styx tripped into existence, a klutzy, prepubescent motion like a tower of bricks trying to catch itself as it was knocked over.

When he righted himself, he was standing next to the table, his elbow jammed against the coffee pot, too large and loud and real for the tiny room and the surreal conversation.

“Hell, goddamn,” he breathed, grabbing her and pulling her to her feet, into a lung-crushing hug.

Emotion crashed over Hell as the last hours replayed on fast-forward in her mind, over-exposed and badly edited. She clung to Styx, the one thing that made sense, her anchor. They were two magnets drawn back together, across continents, not of this world, made real by the other’s existing. Hell started to cry and Styx pulled her tighter and it felt like something else should happen between them but Hell didn’t know what so she remembered who she was and she pulled back, smoothing her hair, banishing the dampness from her cheeks, and finding a smile in her back pocket to wear. “Nice entrance.”

“You were pretty insistent with your—whatever that was.”

“You weren’t too calm-headed yourself.”

“I’m sorry about your father.” Styx’s hand shoved his hair off of his forehead reflexively. “And—everyone else.”

Hell managed a rueful laugh. “I’m invisible girl, remember?”

“You wish,” Styx said, flicking his gaze up and down her body. “You look like crap right now.”

Hell thought about a retort involving a rejection of his own hotness but wasn’t comfortable with lying in front of a priest.

Oh, God. Explaining. Lots of explaining needed to happen right now—

Styx’s face cracked open with laughter at Hell’s silence, his arms tallying a point scored with a sweeping gesture.

That was the idea, anyway.

The room wasn’t big enough for his look-I’m-a-bird arms-thrown-outward motion. Which wouldn’t be a problem in any other room, where he would pass effortlessly through pesky furniture. But here Styx was solid, a fact he hadn’t figured out yet—

His hand slammed against the murmuring coffee pot and sent it tumbling off the counter.

“Look, it’s you a minute ago.” Hell laughed. “We’re corporal here, Styx.”

“Got that,” Styx said, rubbing his hand, cursing under his breath. “Why?”

His gaze fell on a bemused Daniel Wainscott.

“Who are you?”

“Father Wainscott.” He held out his hand for a shake.

Styx ignored it, turning to Hell. “A priest?” He took in the stone walls, then rewound his flight into the room. “A church?”

“He can see us! And he makes us—real.”

“How?”

“No one knows.”

“Really?” Styx glared at Wainsott. “No one knows?”

Hell smacked him on the arm. “Focus. The guy’s fine. You think I can’t take care of myself?”

“I think I’ve done a damn good job making sure you can take care of yourself and a whole legion of orphan hellbeasts.” Hell nodded smugly. “I also think that jackass of a father might have done some permanent damage by dying.”

“I’m. Fine.”

Styx held her gaze, taking in the redness of her eyes, the streaks on her cheeks, the tousled rats nest that was her hair. “Sure.”

Hell glared at his doubt, turning her back on him and laying on the sarcasm. “Wainscott, meet my beloved partner Styx.”

“A pleasure to meet you.” Wainscott didn’t attempt another handshake.

Styx waved the man away. “Hell, can we go? You shouldn’t be out here so long, especially not when you’re like this.”

“Like what? You think I’m PMS-ing or something? I can handle myself, K? Chill. I don’t need a parent. Oh, wait! Haha. I guess that’s a good thing, seeing as I don’t have any! Have anything to say, kidnapper?”

It was the worst insult Hell ever used against Styx, powerful and devastating in its truth. Styx stepped back, trying to give Hell the air she needed to breathe, but he bumped into the counter. Claustrophobia bore down on both of them like synchronized armies. Hell just had time to look at Wainscott and say, “I’m sorry about your coffeepot,” before the intention rolled through her mind and she found herself in purgatory again, back in her old life of death.

On Why I Don’t Say Crud and Darn

cursing bullshit brooks 1

I’m a high school freshman girl. Most of the people who read my writing, especially the works I don’t post on this blog, are my family. Since I started this blog, a lot of family friends–adults–have started to read my stories, things I usually keep under wraps or only show my friends.

And nearly all of them have the same comment:

“Why do you curse so much?”

or

“You don’t need to use those curse words.”

It’s not like I blame them. Most of these people have watched me grow up. Of course it’s weird for them to read my writing and see f-bombs.

But here’s the thing:

People curse.

I curse.

Not at school, of course (not with adults around anyway). Not at family gatherings (usually). But with my friends? At home? Hell yeah.

(This doesn’t mean that I curse during class discussions or feel comfortable–most of the time–with cursing at specific people or that I’m going to go to a speech and debate competition and use “shit” in my arguments. I know how to turn it off. Most people do. But if I stub my toe, all bets are off. And I think that’s a part of human psychology that should be embraced by authors, not shied away from.)

And the people around me curse. I’ve heard teachers say “shit” and “bitch.” My family curses (a lot). My friends have perfected chain-cursing, in which you string together lots of expletives with semi-violent threats of bodily harm to express how exactly you’re feeling about pretty much anything: the weather (which is always too hot or too cold), homework, tests, teachers, lack of sleep, group projects, jerks, bad music, loud noises, or people throwing food. The random people I pass during passing periods all have their sailor’s licences in expletive dropping. People curse when they text. People curse online.

(Again, I don’t mean to promote or condone cursing. But if I’m writing a story about people, especially people today, they’re going to curse, because that’s what the world looks like right now…and pretty much since the invention of curse words, back then in the stone ages.)

on cursing ducking

So when I go to write a story, I don’t shy away from curse words. They are a natural part of life for me. And my current writing goals are to write things that feel real to me.

When I went to write my novel, Devil May Care, my goal was to capture high school. I feel that I’m in a unique position, as an actual student, not an adult trying to remember what it was like, or an adult preaching about what it should be, or an adult basing it off of High School Musical and Mean Girls. I go to it everyday. It’s the epitome of real life for me. And my novel, though it is paranormal, takes place in a very normal high school environment. So for my project, I decided I would challenge myself to make my portrayal of high school as accurate as possible. Which meant crowded banks of lockers and getting elbowed in the head during passing periods and…cursing.

A message to every parent that tries to keep their child from cursing and thinks they can keep their child from being exposed to it: give up. I hear a dozen perverted, sexual, explicit, and expletive-ridden conversations on my way from first period to second. It happens. It’s a part of my reality.

I’m not going to hide from that when I go to write. There will be cursing. There will be innuendos and conversations you wish I don’t understand. With Devil May Care, I decided I was going to write high school the way it actually is, not the way adults want it to be. I’m not going to replace fuck with eff, bitch with bee-with-and-itch, damn with darn, crap with crud, shit with shizz, goddamn with GD, what the fuck with WTF. No one talks like that. (I have ONE friend who literally never cusses. I love her for it. But she’s a MAJOR anomaly. She is the outlier to end all outliers.)

Even in DMC, where my main character refuses to curse out loud, she curses in her mind (and as the story progresses…that changes, but hey, character development!). The characters around her curse. When I wrote a side character named Xia–a short, dyed-black-hair, ears-pierced-til-the-end-of-time BAMF–I let her curse like a goddamn sailor. In the first pages with her, I actually found myself going back to her dialogues and adding in curse words, because it was so unrealistic for her to not curse. (I was in the habit of avoid f-bomb campaigns with my old project, the more middle grade After We Waited for Ever. I successfully trained that out of myself with DMC.) It became a part of her diction and syntax. I knew what curse words she favored, how she used them for emphasis, how she built rhythm into her rants with them. Her cursing habit helped me understand her character and made her come alive for me. It was also a clear way her influence could rub off on Rose, as curse words gradually slipped into her used-to-be-clean dialogue.

I have an entire, annotate-able motif in DMC about all the different ways my main character is called a bitch. It is actually one of my favorite parts about the book, adding in beautiful juxtapositions and characterizations that would be lost if I didn’t feel comfortable dropping the word.

And in the series I post here, Hell and Styx, I curse. Hell is a badass gatekeeper of eternal punishment with serious unresolved emotional issues and a pessimistic, cynical view of the universe. Styx is a bored teenager who has to put up with Hell until the end of time. Neither of them have adult supervision at any time and share their purgatory with a ton of dead people. Do either of those characters sound like people who would shy away from cursing? Who would censor themselves when they went on a I-hate-the-goddamn-universe rant?

No.

Not even sort of.

I want to write real stories. I’m trying to push myself to make even my paranormal stories read like real life.

For me, that means cursing. I don’t do it for no reason. Every expletive I use adds something to the characterization or plot development. They give insight into how the character works. The goody-two-shoes says fuck? Some serious shit hit the fan. The new character curses every two words? You immediately understand what this person is like. The person who usually only curses in their mind curses out loud? They’re under stress. Someone who has only cursed once in the book starts yelling and hurls curse words like spittle? They’re seriously angry.

Maybe you say a more advanced author would find another way to get these facts across. But I like my way. It’s real. It’s efficient.

on cursing shirt

So there. That’s why I curse in my writing. Maybe it makes you uncomfortable. That’s fine, really. But don’t chide me for it. People curse. Which means my characters curse. Until we live in a world where I can walk through the quad at lunch without hearing about how much of a “fucking awesome weekend” someone had or my friends can walk home without being told they have “fine asses,” I’m not censoring my writing. These are my stories.

on cursing twainQuestions? Comments? Concerns? The comments are always open 🙂