This is my very private personal blog and it remains infinitely more popular than my official author blog where I try to come off as a real live professional person/ author.
I'm Mik. I have a love affair with Impalas. I am afraid of spiders and alcoholics. I am a yogurt connoisseur. Future meta-magician. Former logic clinician. Former model. Former bookstore owner. Some other stuff. Currently mother, author, freelance editor and editor for Kleft Jaw Press.
Testimonial from a former roommate:
"Living with you was like living with a quiet little opinionated deer person who floated around like a ghost and said smart/nutso things and ate seaweed. "
I divide my time between Boulder, Colorado and Wichita, Kansas. I love mountains. I love hiking. I read and write. I raise my daughter to the best of my ability. I have lupus and have defeated early-stage cancer twice, so I pretty much fully support the use of medical marijuana.
Did I tell you that when you said to me, “I
didn’t know you speak French,” after
I read Sophie a bedtime story, I felt whole: like something
you’d pick up and keep. I collect your
words like I make lists: when the Niagara Falls froze,
silence woke the neighbors up. There’s
no one with my list of stolen metaphors. I wish
everyone had as many, or even someone who
listens. Everyone should hear, “I didn’t know you
speak French.” —as if you found the last piece of a jigsaw
puzzle behind the couch, just when I think the puzzle is as
complete as it will ever be and that the hole will be there
Jordan: "Uh. Care to explain why there's a broken cage and chickens all over the house?"
Me: I've had a long, hard day of making enemies and alienating people.
Him: Does this have anything to do with the internet again?
Jordan, selecting a frozen dinner from our collection in the freezer. (via karenfelloutofbedagain)
Lots of things might happen. That’s the thing about writers. They’re unpredictable. They might bring you eggs in bed for breakfast, or they might all but ignore you for days. They might bring you eggs in bed at three in the morning. Or they might wake you up for sex at three in the morning. Or make love at four in the afternoon. They might not sleep at all. Or they might sleep right through the alarm and forget to get you up for work. Or call you home from work to kill a spider. Or refuse to speak to you after finding out you’ve never seen To Kill A Mockingbird. Or spend the last of the rent money on five kinds of soap. Or sell your textbooks for cash halfway through the semester. Or leave you love notes in your pockets. Or wash you pants with Post-It notes in the pockets so your laundry comes out covered in bits of wet paper. They might cry if the Post-It notes are unread all over your pants. It’s an unpredictable life.
But what happens if a writer falls in love with you?
This is a little more predictable. You will find your hemp necklace with the glass mushroom pendant around the neck of someone at a bus stop in a short story. Your favorite shoes will mysteriously disappear, and show up in a poem. The watch you always wear, the watch you own but never wear, the fact that you’ve never worn a watch: they suddenly belong to characters you’ve never known. And yet they’re you. They’re not you; they’re someone else entirely, but they toss their hair like you. They use the same colloquialisms as you. They scratch their nose when they lie like you. Sometimes they will be narrators; sometimes protagonists, sometimes villains. Sometimes they will be nobodies, an unimportant, static prop. This might amuse you at first. Or confuse you. You might be bewildered when books turn into mirrors. You might try to see yourself how your beloved writer sees you when you read a poem about someone who has your middle name or prose about someone who has never seen To Kill A Mockingbird. These poems and novels and short stories, they will scatter into the wind. You will wonder if you’re wandering through the pages of some story you’ve never even read. There’s no way to know. And no way to erase it. Even if you leave, a part of you will always be left behind.
If a writer falls in love with you, you can never die.
Angela: "I'm ready for my U.A., I prepared for this!"
Probation officer: "Angela, when you say stuff like that, it worries me."
Me: "John! You have to be at work in an hour! Think sober thoughts!"
John: "What flavor of ice cream do you think polar bears like best?"
*boyfriend bursts out of the bathroom shouting*
Him: You know what? I fucking HATE it when you cook eggplant! They remind me of a Pokemon and they look like a Pokemon and I can't eat a Pokemon! It's terrible! It doesn't matter how you cook it, it still looks like a Pokemon! Just don't even bother any more. I can't do it. It leaves a bad taste in my mouth.
Me: Are there any other vegetables I shouldn't cook because they look like Pokemon?