You and Your Hippo

Imagine one day, someone (maybe yourself) buys you a hippo toy. Who knows why? Maybe they saw the hippo and it reminded them of you. Maybe they thought it was just cute and worth buying. Maybe they love hippos and wanted to share their love for hippos with you. Regardless, you now own a hippo toy. Maybe you asked for it. Maybe you didn’t. But it’s there, and you don’t throw it out.

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The Fanfic Dialogues, Part One

What defines something as fanfiction?

It’s not as easy a question as it might appear at first blush. Most of us have an idea of what fanfiction is, and that idea is built on our experience, or lack of experience, with it. Most people who care know that 50 Shades of Grey started out as a fanfic of Twilight, which is usually added to the list of its failures. Even if you’ve never read a fanfic in your life, you probably have some passing acquaintance with its tendencies and flaws. Whether talking about Mary Sues or slash fic or shippers or mash ups or whatever else, anyone with an opinion on fanfic probably has it shaped by their expectations rather than the reality.

Posted in Blog, Comic Books, Commentary, Writing | 5 Comments


I’ve been writing, professionally and otherwise, for over 20 years now, and while I’d never claim to be an expert, I’ve learned a lot over the years. I continue to learn a lot, which is why I’m reluctant to call myself an expert. But I won’t deny I’ve spent hours and hours and hours of my life thinking about storytelling specifically and art in general. It’s why I’m sometimes perceived as a bit too critical of much of media, particularly storytelling media. It’s not a point I can disagree with because most people don’t care about much of what bugs me. There’s some truth to the “overthinking” it counter-criticism, but that isn’t a bulletproof defense of weak storytelling either.

Posted in Blog, Writing | 1 Comment

Chosen (short fiction)

Wren & Hess


Wren got the kid.

He was young, fresh off the farm. He hadn’t been in the city long. She could always tell because the grime hadn’t caked its way under his nails yet. It didn’t take long for that to happen. Maybe a couple of weeks if you lived in the city proper and not the Hills or Reaches.

He sat in the interrogation room with her. His hands and clean fingernails fidgeted, and he couldn’t look at her.

Posted in Short Fiction | 2 Comments
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