The ghost in the hall.


A few years ago, James and I moved into a new apartment (a different apartment from that of the mouse and potato fiasco) in one of the more historic sections of our city. We’d graduated (barely) from the no air-coniditoner/appliances/functioning-outlets sort of places we’d been living in before and this apartment felt like our first real apartment, despite actually being our third. This apartment had actual rooms, not just a bathroom (attached to a closet for some reason?) and a little corner designated for the kitchen, but actual rooms—with doors and hallways and, thank god, central air. So, needless to say, we were pretty excited about it.

The only downside was that we lived less than a block away from a very old, very large cemetery—the kind with massive crypts and statues of angels shrouded in sheets. Also, when I say less than a block I mean within in viewing distance—like from the living room windows I could see graves. But hey, the place had hardwood floors and old fashioned windows, so who’s complaining?

So the evening we moved in, James leaves to get dinner for us and I stay in the new apartment to begin unpacking. After a few minutes of struggling to pull tape off boxes, I hear someone walking up the hallway and, assuming James had returned, went to investigate. Oddly, the hallway is empty. I’ve lived in my share of apartments and old houses, and I know they all have their weird noises so I think nothing of it and return to unpacking. A few minutes later I hear it again — distinctly this time, since I’m already on edge — footsteps, walking up the hallway. I get up and go and stand at the end of the hall and wait and almost immediately I hear the steps again, so loud and clear I can almost see exactly where on the floor the noise is coming from. The steps stop just a couple feet from me.

At this point I’m starting to freak out. It’s pitch black outside. Only a couple lights in this apartment have bulbs in them. And James isn’t back yet. So I call my friend, who is a die-hard believer in ghosts, and tell her what’s happening. She tells me it’s definitely a ghost and that it’s pissed that I’ve moved into the apartment it believes it rightfully owns. I can see the cemetery from my windows and there are no cars in the lot behind the apartment, so I’m alone in the building and in no place to argue. I ask her what to do. She tells me I’ve got to sprinkle salt all around the apartment to get rid of any lingering bad energy and that ideally I should burn some sage as well. I dig the salt container out of a box and walk around the apartment shaking it out onto the floor, but midway through this little exercise I hear the footsteps AGAIN, and this time a door slams, at the far end of the hall with a huge crash.

I freeze, still on the phone with my friend, who’s freaking out right along with me, and asking what’s happening. I whisper what’s going on to her and she tells me this ghost is clearly the very angry, very powerful kind and I’ve got to find something to burn or it’s going to stay in the apartment with me FOREVER and probably murder me in my sleep. I tell her I don’t know what box my sage is in and together we decide any kind of herbs will work. I have no idea where the spices from my kitchen are and as I’m frantically digging around for something to burn I hear a voice — a male voice — coming from the hallway, followed by more footsteps. I’m about ready to lose my mind at this point so I grab the closest thing to herbs I can find — a head of romaine lettuce— and a lighter and put my friend on speakerphone while I scurry around the apartment, trying to get what is essentially salad to catch fire. I’ve got the salt shaker and the lighter in one hand, the lettuce in the other, and I’m dancing around trying to shake salt out while trying to force the lettuce to burn and right then James walks in the door.

I scream. My friend on the phone screams.

James is staring at me wondering why I’m waving around slightly smoking lettuce and probably reconsidering whether or not he wants to live with me.

“Why are you burning stuff? And dumping salt on the floor?”

“Because there’s a GODDAMN GHOST walking up and down our hallway!”

James very casually glances towards the hallway and says: “That’s our new neighbor. His car’s parked out front.”

Apparently the floorboards between our hallways were attached so anyone walking in either hallway sounds like they’re walking in both hallways and there was a draft from the exterior door that made other doors in the building slam shut. Poor new-neighbor-dude was just walking up and down his new hall, probably wondering what in all hell is going on next-door.

Bears and Bigfoot


Fun fact: James believes in Bigfoot. Not in an ironic way either—he genuinely believes there’s a seven-foot ape wandering around Northern California, eating deer, and howling in the night for the sake of it.

I’m not really a paranormal kind of girl. I don’t believe in ghosts or anything otherworldly, and while I SUPER wish mermaids were a thing, I’m reasonable enough to be satisfied with my undying love for narwhals as a compromise for the non-existence of Ariel (the first Disney princess I wanted to be). But James really, really believes in Bigfoot. He’s 100% convinced. And since I went through (what I’m sure was a super obnoxious) New Age phase of believing in random nonsense, I’m as supportive as I can be of his Bigfoot shows, t-shirts, stickers, and other nerdy paraphernalia. I don’t judge. I’ve got like six copies of Sherlock Holmes and at least twice that many of Harry Potter and my sisters threw me a Hogwarts themed birthday party (thanks again guys!) so, let’s be real, the nerddom is in full force on both sides of the relationship here.

The only problem with the Bigfoot thing is that (unlike my peculiarities) it requires being outdoors, in the woods, at night. I may not believe in Bigfoot, but mountain lions I’m pretty sold on. Despite my fears of being DEVOURED at 3am I ended up agreeing to go along with James for a weekend of camping and bigfooting.

I packed up a bunch of books (some of them forced on me by my mother) and absolutely no sunscreen or bug spray whatsoever (because I’m an idiot) and we drove my tiny two-door hatchback into the mountains to find a little lake to camp near. The drive was lovely, but we had an unusually difficult time finding the lake and when we finally spotted it we had to pull over into a weird, dirt patch sort of area to park, which meant we had to lug all our camping gear all the way around the far side of the lake on this hugely steep path to where there was somewhere relatively flat that we could set up our tent.

Nature is lovely, don’t get me wrong. I love hiking and going to the beach and all that good stuff. What I don’t love is bugs. I am terrible at dealing with bugs. Not just spiders. All bugs. Mosquitos, worms, butterflies, all of it– my instinct is to scream and run. And that’s what I do. I’m not a squeamish person (I’ve worked in a morgue and before that I trained to be an EMT) but something about bugs does not jive with me. So what’s there to greet us at our carefully chosen campsite? A MILLION FLIES.

These are not the random mildly obnoxious kind of flies, either. These are the flies that BITE. And once they’ve bitten you they HUNT. YOU. DOWN.

So we drop our stuff and James goes back to get the cooler while I try to set up the tent (haha, as if) while being eaten alive by flies. By the time he gets back I’m in full freak-out mode. The flies have found their chosen one and they are sticking with me—plus James has been gone for nearly an hour. He comes back covered in dirt because he decided to take a “shortcut” down the side of the mountain with the cooler (which he dropped, spoons went flying) and he basically rolled his way down a steep hill of dirt, trying not to break the styrofoam cooler and also not, you know, die.

So he returns, with less cutlery than we brought, to find me super stressed out and frustrated (because I’ve got a million fly bites), and surrounded by a bunch of canvas and metal poles because tents are a myth and they do not and never will work. But fortunately James, amateur mountain man and my true love, has a solution: mud.

Yep, that’s right. Mud. We abandon the not-tent and head for the lake where he rubs me down with mud. If that’s sounding sexy at all to anyone let me disabuse you of that notion right now: it wasn’t. Wanna know how you’ve chosen the right significant other? Wait until you’re all sweaty, dirty, half-crazed from bugs, right after he’s finished rubbing you down with mud and then see if he sticks around. I looked hawt, you guys. No denying it.

The mud helped some, but we decided to build a campfire because apparently bugs don’t like smoke. Fun fact: humans don’t like smoke either. Nevertheless, I stood directly in the path of the smoke to deter the bugs until finally, FINALLY, the bugs found another tasty princess to feast on and left us alone. Which is when James decides it was time for dinner. Or, at least, it was time to catch our dinner.

Wanna know something else I’m not good at (so, so many things)? Fishing. I really enjoy it—mostly because I just sit there and read while I hold the pole, catching nothing—but I’m terrible at it. I don’t understand fish or how they think (do they think? it’s hard to tell.) or really even where they are and so I have no idea how to catch them. Fishing for me is mostly just hanging out with James and enjoying whatever new book I have on hand, so I’m usually pretty down. But this lake looks cold and somewhat dirty, however, James tells me there’s even less bugs to bother me if we go out into the lake (not true) and that the water is nice and warm from the sun (also not true) and that trout taste good (haha, no).

Two feet into the water, I bailed. The water was cold and some other weird type of fly liked to land on the surface and somehow it didn’t drown like it should have which freaked me out. I was all ‘hard pass’ to the Jesus Flies and the mucky water, but James insisted that it’s warmer further out where the water isn’t shaded by trees so I gave in and tiptoed my way along a big log jutting out into the water and onto a large rock to stand on and held my pole and fished with James standing in the water nearby.

I couldn’t really risk bringing a book out into the water and getting it wet when I (inevitably) fell off the rock and into the lake, so I got bored pretty quickly. I talk when I’m bored. I talk a lot, actually. Only to people I know and like though, and James is one of those people so I started chattering away to him, sort of stream-of-consciousness style, which, although funny, he assured me, was also apparently scaring away the fish. And it was attracting the attention of a few other people on the far side of the (not vey big at all) lake—a couple of families and some dudes who were clearly way more serious about fishing than we were, that thought my babbling was either obnoxious or charming. My bet is on obnoxious.

James’ bright idea to get me to be quiet is to pull me, waist deep, into the lake where he is. This has the opposite effect. The water was colder, now that the sun was going down and I shrieked—loud. I don’t remember what I said, probably because I blacked out from extreme cold, but James tells me, much to my horror, that I screamed OH MY GOD IT’S COLD ON MY LADY PARTS and that everyone at the lake burst into laughter, while I flailed about in the water like an idiot. For the record, it was really cold on those particular parts.

Once James was no longer doubled over in laughter and had managed to resume a standing position, he decided it would be fun to use the flies landing on the surface of the lake as bait for the fish. For the record, I had long since given up on catching anything. I caught a fish once in Yellowstone when I was really little (or maybe the dude driving the boat had it hooked on already, I Love Lucy style) and I remember almost nothing about it except that the captain of the little boat we rented thought it was really funny to make me touch the fish before we threw it back. I touched it, it did a little squirm/wriggle, I screamed, and my relationship with fish was cemented. I don’t do live fish. Or even dead ones really. I will happily break down a turkey or clean a chicken carcass, but I don’t like fish in any kind of recognizable form. They have creepy eyes. So James, bless his heart, is happily catching bugs and securing them to hooks, while I’m freezing and being useless, because, once again, I don’t know how to fish and, let’s be honest, I don’t really want to catch one anyways.

This goes on for a while, except that my bugs kept falling off my hook through no fault of my own (or maybe it was, I don’t really know) and the rest of the people at the lake seemed to be having similar luck, which is to say none, because no one had caught anything thus far. My bug fell off again and I was like whatever, but James switched poles with me for a minute to squish another one on for me (ew) and as I was standing there watching James cast my line out (I’m terrible at it, you wouldn’t believe how many times I’ve caught my own hair), waiting to switch back, I saw a dark shadow swimming towards James’ little red and white bobber (the only fishing-related thing I can identify, yay me).

The line gave a HUGE yank (I almost fell face first into the water) and James’ head shot up and he went YOU CAUGHT ONE and honestly it felt like quite the reverse and that somehow was the one who had been caught and James was freaking out, trying not to get tangled in my line, so I started freaking out too because he was freaking out and so much was happening all at once, but somehow we managed to switch poles and James started reeling the fish in and I kid you not, within a second of us trading poles I felt another huge yank and now I had a fish too, but James was busy trying to keep his fish hooked and I had never caught anything on my own before until literally the last thirty seconds so I panicked and yelled WHAT DO I DO and everyone around the lake started laughing at me again (except for the serious fishermen who seemed more annoyed than amused) and James shouted what I guess he figured would be the only thing I would understand in the moment which was PEDAL PEDAL to get me to start reeling the fish in and that, ladies and gentleman, was how I became the proud conqueror of two, soon to be eaten, trout.

James skewered the fish and cooked them over our campfire, but after watching my dinner stare at me while it was cooked I was less than enthused with the idea of eating it and since James and I were both pretty exhausted from all the hiking/bugs/lake fiascos that had taken place we decided to call it a night and give Bigfoot one more evening of peace before we went to find him. This is not a joke. James really wanted to go wander around the woods and find him in the middle of the night. Thankfully, he decided Bigfoot could wait and he assembled the tent (a miracle in and of itself) and as the stars were coming out we hunkered down and went to sleep.

Well, one of us did.

Let’s talk about my mom and how she likes to force books on me. I’ve got really wide reading interests. I’ll read nearly anything (I’m that way with music too) and so I’m always interested to hear about pretty much anything anyone is reading, but my TBR is so long and my Amazon wishlist is like 100 books deep, meaning I’m really bad at reading books that people lend me in a timely fashion (don’t loan me your books guys, you’ll have to wait months to get them back, I’m sorry!) and my mom, who likes to push books on me and go READ THIS RIGHT NOW, usually gets frustrated when a week has gone by and I still haven’t read whatever she lended/recommended to me. So this time, good daughter that I am, I stuffed a bunch of books she’d been telling me about into my bag and brought them, thinking I’d be able to read them while we camped. Maybe, if I’d looked at the books beforehand I wouldn’t have included the one where a family goes camping and a bear KILLS AND EATS the parents leaving two little kids alone in the woods. And how does the book begin, you ask? “Based on a true story.”

Holy shit.

So, James was soundly asleep and I was frozen in my sleeping bag, listening to every little creaking branch or snap of a twig and totally panicking because bears are real and they are coming to get us. We’d cooked fish at the campfire, bears love fish (this I know, because I’ve seen Brave), and they were going to follow the smell to our campsite and rip our tent open and eat us alive before we even knew what was happening. This is absolutely how I was going to die.

I was freaking out. Had we even googled this camping area before to check for bears, or mountain lions, or moose, OR AXE MURDERERS? No, of course we hadn’t. Because we were fool-hardy city folk and we deserved to be moose food. Finally, in the middle of the night, James sat up, asking if I was still awake (YES SOMEONE HAS TO LISTEN FOR THE SOUNDS OF IMPENDING DEATH) and after I explained the bear/fish/eaten alive scenario that was most certainly our future he agreed that we could go sleep in the car.

I don’t know why, maybe my sense of direction is backwards at night, but we abandoned our tent and headed off into the dark woods, in the exact opposite direction of our car. I think maybe we thought it would be easier to go around the other side of the lake than the one we came by earlier that day. Spoiler alert: it wasn’t.

This side of the lake included the river that filled the lake and so, wrapped in sleeping bags, carrying pillows, blankets, and water bottles, we started trudging, through mud and over rocks, trying to figure out where in the hell our car is. We went down and over big boulders (in our pajamas mind you) and through creeks and finally up the side of a big rocky hill and discovered—ta-da!—my car! Which was exactly as small as it has always been.

James squished in the back seat (oh did I mention the inside of the car was all wet because the cooler leaked everywhere? yeah, we were killing it at this camping thing) and I folded myself into the front seat, but I still couldn’t relax, because even though we were safe from bears (unless they can open doors like velociraptors can) there was for sure some creepy dude stalking through the woods with an axe.

After a while sleep won out and the next morning I woke up just in time to see the sun rise and from my weird angle in the car guess what I could see through the trees: the gorgeous, prearranged campgrounds that we totally missed just thirty yards over from our weird makeshift one, with a lovely little paved path leading directly to them and a parking lot, not fifty feet up the road from where we parked— all of it just over the hill and above where we had splashed and trudged our way to the car the night before. We could have camped right next to all the other fisherman/campers and walked our stuff to and from our car in about three minutes.

Also, when we got home we googled and found there were no bears or large wildlife of any kind in the area. Not even deer. But James didn’t mind since he said that meant there probably wouldn’t be Bigfoot around either.

The moral of this story is if I ever ask you if you want to go camping with me—say no.

P.S. I had James read this before I posted it and his reaction was: “Actually, the average Bigfoot is eight feet tall.”

The mouse and the potato.


My first apartment was exactly what a first apartment is supposed to be, in ways both good and bad.

James, the boyfriend, and I had been dating for just over a year when we decided it was time for us to move in together. This was largely because I can’t stay up past 10pm to save my life and on our late-night dates I kept either falling asleep at his place and getting locked out of my own, or the few times I somehow, miraculously managed to stay awake I would ride my little scooter (a red Honda metro, fondly named Ruby) home, but the combined weight of both me and the scooter wasn’t enough to trip the sensors and make the stoplights change, so I’d end up sitting at an entirely vacant red light at 3am trying to decide if the ticket for getting caught on camera running the light was ultimately worth it.

I was nineteen and we were poor, but in that blissful sort of unaware way where neither of us understood what we might be missing (a living room, outlets that don’t spark when you put plugs in them, air conditioning) just yet. We had no idea what to look for in an apartment and couldn’t afford anything halfway decent anyways, but we wanted to live downtown, feeling the pull of coffee shops, used bookstores, and tall buildings with busy sidewalks.

Eventually, we (I say “we,” but really it was just me calling James one day after spamming his phone with a dozen pictures going LOOK WHAT I FOUND and telling him I’d picked out our new apartment) came across an ad for a tiny little loft right in the heart of downtown and I was sold. Head over heels, y’all.

It was everything I wanted (and nothing I needed) with its hardwood floors, wide, arched doorways, old-fashioned windows that you literally had to crank open, ancient wrought-iron fire escape that would provide absolutely no means of escape, but which I ended up using for my potted herb garden (until they all fell to their death during a bad windstorm– I was devastated), and my very first kitchen to call my own.

We loved it there. Except when we hated it– like when the bells from the magnificent, towering cathedral across the street (literally, no more than twenty yards away) would chime super early on Sunday mornings, or when we were woken up in the middle of the night by a not-so-casual drugs bust happening down the hall, or, somehow even more worrisome, when we discovered that we had an unwelcome guest living in our midst: namely, a mouse. And it was entirely because of the kitchen, my beautiful, charming, yellow-tiled, sunlight-filled kitchen, that we had the mouse at all.

Our apartment was on the top floor of a building dating back to somewhere in the early 1900’s, before there was, you know, comfort, or widespread use of modern appliances– meaning most people didn’t have refrigerators or the ones they did have were much shorter and smaller. Because of this, the standard size refrigerator the place came with barely fit at the far end of my kitchen. There was a little nook, clearly designed for something half its size, into which someone had shoved the refrigerator, making it impossible to open half the cabinets, or the freezer door, or have more than two people in the kitchen at any given time. It also meant that the oven/stove couldn’t be upgraded from the very small, very ancient retro one because there was simply nowhere to fit a normal sized appliance (I hear some of you wondering where the dishwasher fit– don’t make me laugh).

So, my darling kitchen was equipped with an oven barely wider than a casserole dish and a stovetop featuring roughly one and half burners (on a good day), no pantry whatsoever (though there was an odd door in the wall that opened up to a half-sized ironing board that would occasionally spring open of its own volition and scare the shit out of us) and now– a mouse.

The mouse got in through the oven. Well, I say “through,” but really it was behind.

Your girl here likes to cook, not that I’ve ever been any good at it. And when we moved into this apartment I was going through a serious Julia Child phase. It was French food all day, every day: soufflés, roast chicken with cream sauces, pan-fried fish with herbs, mushrooms done every way you can imagine, potatoes dripping in butter– I was possessed. And in my enthusiasm, I may have pushed our little oven, bless its heart, just a bit too far. So far, in fact, that I actually warped the whole thing, leaving the door unable to close entirely, leaking hot air into the kitchen, and a gap of several inches between the back of the oven and the wall– which was when we discovered the hole: a hole the size of a tennis ball with a couple of dangling wires and quite a lot of teeth marks surrounding it. And that very night was when we first heard the mouse.

It took me, someone who had a pet mouse as a girl (well two, actually, but the second one bit us so my brother and I “set it free” at the local cemetery– why there, I don’t know) a surprisingly long time to figure out what the skitter-scatter noises, which sounded sort of like very specifically focused hailstones, or possibly rice being thrown onto the floor, actually were: tiny mouse feet running from one end of our apartment to the other in the middle of the night. But finally, one morning, I SAW HIM.

I was sitting on my bed (no couches, only adults have real furniture) when I heard it again, that weird clattering noise. Is the floor crumbling away from below? Is my downstairs neighbor trying to morse-code it up with me? What is it? And just then, I turned my head and there he was– sitting, cool as can be, right smack in the middle of my kitchen floor, brown and fluffy, and looking quite pleased with himself.

Moments like these are a mark of how much we humans have yet to evolve. I threw my pen at him. Why? I don’t know. I followed it with my notebook, for reasons passing understanding. And let me just say– if mice could laugh, this one would have been hamming it up as he watched my pen go flying by (no hand-eye coordination lives in this body, none) and my notebook smack into a chair nowhere near him, before he scampered off, underneath the oven, back up into the wall, and away to tell his friends about the stupid-human-girl that he scared.

When James returned home I told him what had gone down. The apartment wasn’t haunted (as he’d hopefully believed), but rather we had a third tenant who was not paying his fair share of the rent. We decided the best solution was to duct-tape the hole in the wall closed and prevent the mouse from entering in the first place. Sticky-traps (what a terrible way to die) and snap-traps (mouse guts on the floor? hard pass) were neither of them an option, so we wedged our way behind the oven and plastered duct-tape over every crack and crevice we could find.

That night, all was silent.

The next morning, feeling pretty adultish and rather impressed with ourselves, we went to check the hole.

It had been chewed through. 

Remnants of tape littered the floor; little Mr. Brown had made extremely quick work of it in the night, much to our frustration. We taped it up again, because what else was there to do, and talked about calling the landlord.

The following morning I woke up after James had already left for work. This time, the tape covering the hole in the wall had been, almost lazily, pushed aside. As if the mouse had decided it really just wasn’t worth his time to put any real effort into showing us silly humans how truly out of our depth we were. However, oddly enough, there was a bowl on the ground with a potato underneath it. The rest of the potatoes were still in their bag up on the nearby counter (no pantry, remember), along with the clean dishes on the drying rack. Only this particular potato and bowl seemed to have migrated during the night, for some unknown reason.

Too busy worrying about the mouse to really pay much attention to this strange discovery, I picked up the bowl and called James to update him.

He answered and moments into my tirade on the ineffectiveness of duct-tape he suddenly goes “I forgot to tell you! I caught the mouse last night!”

“What? You caught it? How?!”

“It was on the floor! In the kitchen! I trapped it under a bowl! Is he still there?!”

I glanced down at the potato, still on the tile. “…you trapped it under a bowl?”

“Yeah, he was right by the oven and I grabbed the bowl and trapped him underneath it!” he tells me, sounding very proud.

“You mean…this potato?” I asked him.

“Potato? What potato?”

“The one I just found sitting under this bowl on the floor?”

“What?” he says. “No, it was the mouse.”

“Nuh uh. This is definitely a potato.”

“Why would there be a potato on the floor?”

“I think it may have rolled off the counter.”

“You mean–”

“Yeah. You trapped a potato.”

Apparently, in the middle of the night James had gone to the kitchen for a drink and spotted, in the darkness, a mouse-shaped lump on the floor and thought, mostly asleep as he was, that he could catch it. After slamming the bowl over the mouse/potato he simply went back to bed and, being dead to the world before 10am, completely forgot about it the next morning until I called. I, who can sleep through literally anything, heard none of the mouse/potato commotion and woke to find the results.

That night we drew whiskers, ears, and a tail on the potato, commemorating its honorary status as both rodent and vegetable, and put it back up on the ledge next to the oven. Apparently mice are afraid of potatoes because we never saw Mr. Brown, slayer of duct-tape and conquerer of apartments, ever again.

Hey y’all.



I know it was ages ago that I said I was going to start blogging more and actually use this little website of mine here, but life has been busy and it’s been too hot to do much more than lay on the living room floor re-reading old books or venture out into the heat to experiment with what kinds of foods can be snuck into the—blissfully— air conditioned movie theater around the corner from my apartment. Spoiler alert: all kinds. Your girl here can get like a lot of candy and several varieties of pasta wedged into her bag—plus drinks. So, basically I’m the best (cheapest) movie date ever.

Anyways, since I haven’t made much use of my sad, neglected, little blog and I’ve gained some new followers on Instagram as of late, I thought it might be fun to do a little ‘getting-to-know-you’ type of post. I have shamelessly stolen a bunch of questions off of Tumblr from a post of asks and this is the result. So, here are ten random facts about me. Enjoy!

Where are you from?

My family is from a small town in southern Utah (really small, like less than 1000 people small), but I was born in Salt Lake City. We moved around a lot when I was younger, but, for the most part, I grew up in the Salt Lake valley, where I currently live.

What is your first happy memory?

This is a tough one as I have a notoriously bad memory. I’ll forget whole conversations, but remember where everyone in a room was seated while we were all talking. It’s super helpful.

I think, however, that my first happy memory is either my mother sitting me on her lap and teaching me to read (Winnie the Pooh yo), or when she took a very tiny me to the hot air balloon festival they do down in Albuquerque. I remember seeing this giant, colossus of a balloon that was painted bright yellow and had a huge smiley face on it and being like holy shit, I want one. All the balloons seemed impossibly big, especially to little ol’ me who couldn’t even get up onto our hotel bed without help, and the whole thing felt magical and otherworldly.

What did you want to be when you were a kid?

Everything: doctor, lawyer (thanks Reese Witherspoon), teacher (I used to give lectures to my stuffed animals), scientist, writer, farmer, ballerina, mermaid, gypsy (*cough-Esmerelda-cough*), violinist, computer programmer, artist, potter, chef/restaurant owner, journalist—seriously everything. You know those aptitude tests they start giving you in middle school (because apparently high school is too late to wait to scare the hell out of your kid about what job they’ll be in for the rest of their life), the ones where it’s supposed to tell you what career you’re meant to have? Yeah, well, I failed them all. I’d have teachers coming to my desk with the results saying “Well, it says you’re best suited to be either an accountant or a poet, so…”

As it is, I’m deliriously happy with my chosen work, which not one of those tests ever predicted. *eyeroll*

Coffee or tea?

Tea. If I want to experience the taste of licking the pavement I can get that for free.

Five things that make you happy?

In no particular order: books, movies, food, my family/friends, and my pet bunny. (Who are we kidding, of course there’s an order and food always comes first dontchaknow.)

What are you most proud of?

My book. Writing it, making it worth however much of someone else’s time it would take them to read it, has been the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I’m not saying the book itself is worthy of any significant amount of pride (reading my own writing is far too much of a cringe-fest for that), more that I’m proud of myself for my work in creating it.

Are you an early bird or a night owl?

Oh my god, I’m the most obnoxious early bird you’ll ever meet. Ask any of my friends or family. I’m the girl that falls asleep before 10pm at parties, during movies, on New Year’s Eve, but is bright and chipper at 5am for no reason, whatsoever. I have no problem waking up early, even without an alarm, but I can’t stay up late to save my life.

Biggest fears?

Death, failure, space. Space is scary as shit, you guys. It just goes ON AND ON. Ugh, I hate even thinking about it. Also, I’m afraid that one day there’ll be some kind of apocalypse scenario in which I won’t be able to buy the magnesium supplements I like anymore. I think about that last one all the time.

Do you have any tattoos or piercings? 

I’ve got a second piercing on my left ear, because I was oh-so-avante-garde at fifteen, but I don’t have any tattoos. There are plenty I think are lovely and I’m often tempted to go get one, but for some reason or another I never end up going through with it.

And, finally, favorite saying?

“Speak softly and carry a big stick.”

Exciting things are happening! (Finally.)


This week has been crazy busy, but for the first time in ages I’m not deep in edits or rewrites because *drum roll* the book is off with the editor! I’m so excited to have finally reached this point and it means I’m on track to launch the book this winter — yay! 

In the meantime I’ve been busy catching up on other projects (read: binge watching Gilmore Girls and crying over the finale of GBBO) but I wanted to take a minute to highlight some of the better bookstagram posts that I’ve done recently — especially since the ones from this week basically just look like I dumped a bunch of books on my bed and took photos of it but whatevs. 

I’ll keep you guys updated on book progress and hopefully I’ll be sending out advance copies for reviews in the near future! 

Have a lovely weekend everyone!!

Banned Books Week!


This week was banned books week so I decided to do a little mashup of my book photos!

It’s been such a crazy week — between rounds of book edits and working out dates with my editor I’m honestly surprised I managed to get a photo up each day, but somehow I did!

Hope everyone had a lovely weekend and a great start to their October!


Coming soon!


CharlotteAndTheWolfSo excited to announce that my first novel Charlotte and the Wolf will be published in 2017 and that I’ve just received the cover! Looking forward to being able to share the book with everyone!



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