All posts by Buffy

the bulrushers

After supper she got out her book and learned me about Moses and the Bulrushers, and I was in a sweat to find out all about him; but by and by she let it out that Moses had been dead a considerable long time; so then I didn’t care no more about him, because I

and the planet mars took me home

Alone at night, when I was twelve years old, I looked at the planet Mars and I said, ‘Take me home!’ And the planet Mars took me home, and I never came back. So I’ve written every day in the last 75 years. I’ve never stopped writing. – Ray Bradbury I’ve been reading a lot

downton abbey. and some smothering dream.

This isn’t a post about Downton Abbey. But it is a post about Wilfred Owen, and he seems to be popping up a lot lately because of Downton. Media Bistro recently published a “Downton Abbey Reading List” and The New York Times even did a piece about Downton and how publishers were using America’s interest


I spent the last few weeks eating pies and watching costume dramas and reading Claire Tomalin’s Dickens Biography. I gained five pounds, discovered the wonderfully squared jawline of a young Douglas Booth, and began to suspect that my favorite Victorian novelist was a wee bit fond of hallucinogenics (see: henbane). I also slept. A lot.

brush arbor

It happened on a Sunday. Will would remember this when other details had been lost to other days. When he could no longer remember the color of her eyes, or the way her mother squalled into the air and gnawed her knuckles until they bled. He would remember the missionaries. For most of the year

cast your fate to the wind

I’ve been listening to the Charlie Brown Christmas Album and various Vince Guaraldi holiday hits since mid-September. They’re all mildly sedative and put the calm in me. I spent most of last week in the hospital. I didn’t get there on my own merit – a certain someone decided to have a stroke, and there

the brief wondrous

Junot Diaz made me cry. Twice. Not his writing . Because, I’ve gotta be honest. I haven’t read any of it yet. (Not yet.) But his voice. I have absolutely zero in common with the man. Our backgrounds are not at all similar. Our lives, current, even less so. But hearing him speak really lit

what i’m writing. southern goth.

Archie Bishop weren’t worth half a man. Not even on a good day. On a bad day there weren’t no point to him at all. He’d sit on that stump – out by the railroad where the boys from the mountain wore the path through the woods – and just stare at you like you

sweet dreams

You know stress is getting the better of you when you wake up at 4:00am-screaming. I used to do this routinely. The Euro found it amusing, until he didn’t. Then he started sleeping in the guest bedroom because “you’re going to give me a heart attack and I’d really rather you not, thanks.” But that

an unexpected gesture

I often ask myself what makes a story work, and what makes it hold up as a story, and I have decided that it is probably some action, some gesture of a character that is unlike any other in the story, one which indicates where the real heart of the story lies. This would have

mo and kev.

If you’re in London this summer stop by the National Portrait Gallery’s BP Portrait Award Exhibition and see “Mo and Kev” by artist Chris Holt. I’ve mentioned Chris’s artistic talents before and you’ll see from his bio on the National Portrait Gallery’s website that he’s also a BAFTA nominated director, writer, and producer. So you