Not just the tiny trees in pots—but the practice behind them. The patience. The intentional limits. The way something can be shaped by constraint and still be very much alive.
I’ve been working smaller lately. Smaller paper. Fewer materials. Watercolor instead of acrylics. It started as an exercise in “less is more,” but somewhere along the way it became about something else entirely—what it means to keep creating when space, time, and energy are limited.
I realized I’m drawn not only to bonsai, but to other small, contained things that people often underestimate. Beta fish. Plants that live on shelves. Things that look easy to keep alive, until you actually care about them thriving.
That realization cracked something open for me.
For a while, I wasn’t thriving. I was existing. And my creativity felt like it was quietly drying out at the edges. What I’m learning now is that growth doesn’t require a big studio or a massive canvas. Sometimes it just requires attention. Care. Presence.
I wrote more about this on my blog—about working small, choosing watercolor, and learning how to grow again without waiting for “better” circumstances.
After my studio closed in early 2021, my creative world didn’t stop—it slowly folded inward.
I kept making work. But the scale changed. The momentum shifted. The connection to the world thinned until creating became quieter than it was meant to be. Not wrong. Just contained.
Lately, that containment has started to feel uncomfortable. Not dramatic. Restless.
I wrote a new post reflecting on creative entropy, contraction, and the pull toward reengagement after years of working inward. It isn’t a relaunch or a declaration—just a reopening of the channel.
If you’ve ever kept creating quietly while something essential drifted out of reach, this might resonate.
→ Read the full post: https://sabrinaehlertart.com/2026/01/14/entropy/
Here we are at the last week of October, and while a part of me is a little shocked and sad that time has flown by so fast, I can honestly say in the last few days ahead of NaNoWriMo, time can’t seem to go fast enough.
I can say that this year because I am feeling REALLY good about my novel project. So good in fact that it has been a bit of a struggle not diving into story creation. These past couple of weeks I’ve spent in novel preparation, fleshing out some characters, and wrapping my brain around the setting, etc. It’s been great practice getting back into the habit of daily writing, and for me having a strong sense of the minutia surrounding a story gets me fully immersed in the actual story that I’m telling. I compare the preparation work I’ve been doing with my writing to the paintings I create in my studio before I start adding the paper quills.
When I start a piece of artwork, I have a general idea of what I’m going to be doing, and I will spend quite a bit of time painting the background and laying the ground world of the piece. Sometimes I’ll sketch in a book if I’m working with a figure that’s giving me some trouble before committing that image to the canvas, sometimes I go forth boldly and paint. My work doesn’t ever truly come alive until I start working with the paper, and when I work with the paper I work completely organically. I don’t map out where each quill is going to go before I start cutting up my strips. I use the groundwork of the painting to guide me in the best way to integrate the paper.
The prep work I’ve been doing for NaNo follows the same vein. I’ll create backstories for my characters, giving me a sense of where they’ve come from and what will eventually motivate their future actions. Most of what I’ve written will never see the light of day, it probably wont be featured in the story, but it’s the painting that will guide me as I start creating the story.
Here we are, October 2nd, just thirty days until the start of National Novel Writing Month. This year marks 10 years of my NaNo participation. I’ve completed the 50,000 word challenge about half of the time, and while i’m still have yet to come away with an entire novel finished and published in some form or another, I do enjoy the creative challenge.
As with any feat of endurance, training leading up to the challenge is important. In previous years I’ve trained with outlining and plot development, other years I’ve fortified for my 30 day hibernation by reading obsessively and making sure the snacks and coffee were in abundance.
This year, my NaNo training regimen is simply to get back into the habit of writing every single day. It doesn’t have to be much, it doesn’t have to take a long time, I just have to sit down at a computer or a notebook and get something written down. Lately, I’ve been journaling about how I am stumped for a novel idea and seeing how I can flesh out the ideas I do have for this year’s challenge.
At this juncture, I think I have the base premise behind my project pretty well picked out. I’m still testing it, seeing where I could potentially take things and now well the idea can withstand poking and prodding or at least hold my interest to 50,000 words and beyond. My main goal between now and November 1st is to write every day, read a little every day, and keep my creative juices flowing so that this year I can write my way through 50,000 words in just only 30 days.
Eddie Valentine had a reputation in the criminal underworld as a true professional, a man who got the job done and done well.
You had a lieutenant taking a little off the top... Eddie will take off the lieutenant’s head.
You hear that a stoolie is chirping to the Feds... Eddie will make sure he doesn’t sing another note.
Some looser eyeballing your wife... Eddie would gladly feed him his own eyeballs.
Not only was Eddie Valentine efficient, he could kill anyone to order.
You want it made to look like someone just had an accident... no problem.
Want someone roughed up... Eddie could make it so even the guy’s own mother wouldn’t be able to recognize him.
Eddie Valentine was good at what he did, and his services were in high demand. He never missed his mark, and he cleaned up after himself. Those two skills alone were worth the million Eddie charged just to look at a dossier.
One evening, after completing a job, Eddie sat at a bar enjoying a quiet drink when a man sat down in the seat next to him.
After ordering himself a drink, the man turns to Eddie. “You’re Eddie Valentine aren’t you?”
“What’s it to you?”
Eddie was annoyed, he just wanted to have his drink in peace.
“You are, you’re Eddie Valentine! Man I have been wanting to meet you for a long time. I have to say I really admire your work.”
“I’m pretty sure you have the wrong man.”
The man studied Eddie intently for a few moments, while Eddie contemplates how he could kill the man and get out without anyone seeing or knowing it was him.
“No,” the man said finally. “It’s you, but don’t worry, it’s not like I’m gonna say anything. You’re like a legend. You’re kind of my hero. You’re the reason I got into the business.”
“And what business would that be?”
“You know, taking care of problems. For rich, powerful, people.”
“I see…” Eddie gave up the idea of murdering the guy, at least not right now, too many witnesses. Maybe later, if the guy didn’t take the hint and shut his face.
“Listen, I was wondering if I could talk to you a little, you know get some tips.”
“Look, it’s been a long night.”
“Let me buy you a drink!” the man looks around for the bartender. “Did you do a job tonight? Whose the mark? How did you…”
Eddie sets his empty glass down with heavy thud. The bartender materializes as if out of nowhere, to refill the glass. Eddie takes out a wad of bills from his pocket and tosses a few at the bartender who disappears again before the guy next to Eddie could get a word in.
“You want some advice, well here it is. A professional never discusses his work with anyone. And asking questions like that is a good way of getting yourself killed. Now if you will excuse me…”
Eddie knocks back his drink in one large gulp, setting it upside down on the bar. Without another word, he turns and walks out into the night.
Eddie had gone a few blocks when he suddenly stops and slides into the shadows created by two buildings. He’d known almost immediately after leaving the bar that he was being followed.
Eddie was sure it was the little pissant, his ’Number One Fan’, who was following him. Big mistake dude, Eddie thought.
As much as he wanted to earlier, Eddie couldn’t do anything while they were at the bar, but here on the street, hidden in the shadows, was a whole other story. Eddie didn’t like killing when there wasn’t a paycheck involved, but he couldn’t have some guy following him running his mouth.
Eddie tenses, poised to strike. He could hear the sounds of foot steps approaching. He only had a split second to make sure that he got the right guy before he struck. Eddie Valentine was a professional, and he never missed or hit the wrong target.
“Hey man what are you doing!” the man protested, as Eddie dragged him into the shadows of the alley, pinning him against a wall with an arm pressed heavily against the windpipe.
“The only thing saving you right now is the fact that I don’t have a contract marking you for death,” Eddie hisses through his teeth. “So I suggest you listen very carefully before I decide to do you for free.”
The man, gasping for air from the pressure to his throat, could only nod frantically. Eddie eases up a little, but still keeps the guy in his iron grip. The man’s breath came in loud ragged gasps. “You say you want tips about the business?” Eddies says. “Well here it is… don’t get started. Once you start there’s no stopping. I’ve done a great many jobs for a number of people, and I’ve made quite a bit of money in the process. But the thing no one tells you when you start is that you never get a chance to use any of that money for yourself. You make a lot of friends in this business, but you also make a lot of enemies, so you’re always having to look over your shoulders.”
“You can always quit, or retire.”
Eddie laughs, “There’s no retirement for guys like me. Sure, there are a few old timers out there who don’t take on new jobs and say they’re retired, but I can guarantee they aren’t.”
“Then what are they?”
“Waiting. Guys in this business, we’re like sharks. We can smell blood hundreds of miles away and if we quit swimming we drown and die. When an old timer retires, he’s just waiting for the day some up and coming hotshot looking to make a name for himself, scents the blood in the water and comes knocking. Maybe he’ll get lucky, and gets his mark, or maybe the old timer lives to see another day. Either way, the only way we’ll get to retire is when they put us out to pasture, six feet under out to pasture.”
Eddie releases the man, taking a step back. He’s still wary but also somewhat resigned. The man stands up, straightening his clothes and smoothing his hair back from his face.
“If you could retire,” he asks Eddie. “Even for a day. What would you do?”
Eddie thinks for a moment. “I’d lay in a hammock in the backyard of a large house in the country. The sun shining on my face. I’ve spent so much time in the shadows, I like to lay in the sun. Around me there’s laughter, children are playing nearby, and a beautiful woman materializes out of nowhere bringing me an ice cold beer. That’s how I’d retire, to a house in the country where there are kids and hammocks, and cold beer served by a beautiful woman who for some reason loves me in spite of the monstrous things I’ve done.”
The man and Eddie stare at one another silently for a while, each one waiting to see what the other will do. Finally the man smiles. “Thank you Eddie,” he says. “You’ve given me a lot to think about. I hope you get a chance to experience your retirement, even if only for a day.” With that, the man turns and walks away, disappearing into a crowd and leaving Eddie a little shaken by what had just occurred.
Eddie pulls his car into the driveway, tapping his horn lightly to signal his arrival. From deep inside the house, he can hear excited voices as he opens the door and climbs out of the car. The front door opens and a boy and girl about four and five years old respectively, come barreling towards him.
Eddie Moreno, the top salesman for Fun-Co Toys East Coast Sales Division, bends down and sweeps the children up into his arms, spinning them around as they squeal loudly with glee. He sets them down, so he can kiss his wife Marina hello and tickle the chubby baby she held against her hip.
“You’re home sooner than we expected,” she says. “Did everything go as planned?”
“Everything went fine, it just didn’t take as long as I thought it would.”
Marina looks at him for a moment as though she didn’t quite recognize her husband. “Is everything okay? You seem different.”
Eddie smiles, pulling her close. “Everything is perfect. I just think that the firm can do without me as the East Coast sales rep.”
Marina frowns, “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying,” Eddie plucks the baby from Marina’s arms, tossing him lightly in the air making him giggle wildly. “Is that I’m done with sales. I’m tired of traveling and living out of suitcases in crappy hotel rooms. I’m tired of not getting to see you everyday and wake up next to you. I’ve done enough for the firm, it’s time for some other guy to take over. So I quit, and I’m going to stay right here at home with my family.”
Eddie hands to baby back to Marina, kissing away the tears as they rolled down her cheeks, and dances with his son and daughter to choruses of, “Daddy’s home! Daddy’s home! Daddy’s home for good!”
The next evening, Eddie lounged in the hammock out back, drinking a beer while Marina was inside washing dishes. The smell of BBQ still clung to the breeze. Eddie sighed with contentment, closing his eyes and soaking up the last bits of sunlight before the sun dipped below the horizon. He loved the sounds of his children laughing as they chased each other around the back yard. It was a perfect moment.
As the sun disappeared, and the world grew darker, Eddie couldn’t bring himself to move. He heard Marina call for the children from inside the house, it was time for their baths. Eddie should go inside to help her, but still he couldn’t bring himself to move so much as a muscle.
He was waiting.
Fortunately, he didn’t have to wait long. He heard a familiar voice in the dark.
“Hello again Eddie.”
“Hello,” Eddie replies, his eyes closed as if he could still feel the warmth of the sun on his skin.
“You don’t sound too surprised to hear from me again.”
“I had my suspicions.”
“I have no doubt. Your reputation is after all legendary.”
“So they say,” Eddie takes an other pull from the beer in his hand. “Can I ask you something?”
“You want me to spare your life? Give you more time with the wife and kiddies?”
“No, I know how this plays out. It just occurs to me that I never got your name.”
The man chuckles softly. “It’s Patrick. Patrick O’Connor.”
“It’s nice to meet you Patrick.”
“It’s nice to meet you too. So, how do you want to do this?”
“Do what?” Eddie calmly and casually finishes off the last of his beer. He can hear the sounds of the bath running from one of the open windows, and the sounds of his wife and children.
“Oh now, don’t be coy Eddie. This is a big deal for me. I’ve been waiting for this moment a very long time.”
“Just another up and comer looking to make a name for himself.”
“Something like that,” Patrick smiles in the dark. “If I ask you something, do you promise to be totally honest with me?”
“Ask away.”
“Why did you let me walk away? Back there in that alley, you had me. All you needed to do was apply just a little bit more pressure and you could have crushed my windpipe and left me to suffocate.”
“I know that.”
“So why? And don’t tell me its because you weren’t going to get paid, we both know that isn’t really true.”
“I guess I’m just tired. I’ve been swimming for a very long time, I just wanted to stop a while.”
“That’s what I thought.” Patrick reaches a hand into his pocket, Eddie still didn’t move. “You know you were right. Guys like us really don’t get to retire.”
“No we don’t.”
“At least you got to have a day. I gave you that much.”
“Remind me to thank you when this is over.”
Patrick stands just behind Eddie’s head. “You already have,” he says swiping his knife quickly across the other man’s throat. He stands back as the blood pours from Eddie’s throat, soaking the hammock and his shirt, puddling on the ground below. “Good bye Eddie,” he whispers before melting into the night.
Edward James Moreno, a.k.a. Eddie Valentine, a.k.a. Eddie the Viper, died the same way he had lived, alone and in the shadows.
He was survived by his wife Marina Moreno, and his three children, Lily, Eddie Jr., and Jacob. They never knew the kind of man of man Eddie had been or what he did when he traveled, but Marina was shocked to discover that she was a wealthy widow many times over.
The name Eddie Valentine still commands a lot of respect amongst the other sharks in the underworld. All though no one claimed responsibility for the hit, his death is talked about in hushed, reverent tones.
“If I were gonna retire,” the old timers would say, “I’d wanna retire like Eddie Valentine.”
Another month long writing extravaganza where the goal is to write a novel 50,000 words or more in thirty days.
I spend a lot of time and energy getting ready for NaNoWriMo. Keeping track of ideas, outlining, character developing you name it... And of course the moment the clock strikes midnight on November 1, every thought, idea, plan, agenda, go flying right out the window.
Fortunately, I’ve been doing this for the past eight years, so I’m pretty familiar with how this works. This year, before jumping straight into novel writing, where the majority of my time is spent staring at a blank computer screen with the curser blinking insolently at me, I’d try some different strategies to get the juices flowing.
Today’s strategy... a warm up.
I’ve worked for years in educational settings, and warm ups are common tools teachers use to help get class started. Spend five minutes on a random topic just to limber up the brain.
Years ago, a very dear friend gifted me with a box of Inspiration. It was a deck of cards with ideas to help jump start inspiration when you felt the well running dry. Embarrassingly, I haven’t used it all that much before today... today I dusted it off and got to work.
Today’s prompt was to Flip It Over, meaning take something I’ve written about recently and approach it from an opposite angle. So, taking a bit of journaling I did this morning with some of it touching on my Art is Life motto... so flipping that, Art is Death. And with that I have...
The Curious Case of Andy Warner
Andy Warner sits on the hard, vinyl covered, exam table. The protective paper cover crinkles loudly with every move he made as he waited, impatiently, for the doctor or someone to arrive. He’s wearing a thin cotton gown that tied off in the back, but with every movement he makes he feels it loosen.
There’s a light tap on the door, and a nurse peaks her head in cautiously as if making sure Andy was decent before opening the door all the way. She smiles at Andy, introducing herself as Sarah. She’s pretty, with thick dark hair cropped to the base of her neck and held back from her face with barrettes. On any other day, in any other room, Andy would have found her attractive. But that day, in that room, there was nothing about her that he found likeable. Her smile, which was intended to be warm and comforting, felt cautious and placating, as if to say... I know something you don’t know and it’s not really pleasant, but I’m not going to say anything. Can’t give away the ending before the doctor comes. It was an infuriating smile.
Andy shifts uncomfortably on the table. The paper is scratchy and it makes his ass itch like a....
“How are you today Mr. Warner?” Sarah asks, taking the blood pressure cuff off of the wall. Andy winces as she pries it apart, the loud riiiip of the velcro tearing felt like a thousand tiny needles piercing his brain.
“I’ve been better,” he replies holding out his arm so she could wrap the cuff around his bicep. “It feels like I’ve been sitting here forever, how much longer do I have to wait?”
“Oh, Dr. White is just a little behind schedule today,” Sarah’s tone is apologetic. “He should be in shortly.”
Sarah continues to take is vitals, making notes on a slip of paper as she mutters to herself. If Andy had been in a different frame of mind, he might have noticed that despite the fancy machinery attached to the wall near the exam table, she was taking his vitals the old fashioned, manual way. It was as though she wanted to spend more time with him, yet not engage him in any real conversation.
At long last, Sarah finishes poking and prodding Andy. She leaves him alone again in the room, minus a vial or two of blood. His backside was starting to feel uncomfortably cool as the thin gown had loosened even more and the edges no longer met in the back.
Looking down at his wrist to check the time, Andy forgets for a moment that he’d left his watch at home. He’d also left his cell phone behind as well. After getting the call from Dr. White’s office telling him to come in right away, Andy had been flustered and not thinking clearly.
With no watch, no phone, and the room conspicuously devoid of a wall clock, Andy had no idea what time it was or how long he had been waiting. Time seemed to have no meaning in that room, with its sterile white walls and hideous teal colored furniture, and the exam table with its thin, scratchy, paper which in that moment seems determined to crawl up his ass crack every time he moved so much as moved an inch.
For all he knew, civilization could fallen and risen again since he first entered that room.
Another knock at the door, this time louder and more direct, before opening. Dr. Robert White steps into the the room, a thick folder tucked under his elbow. His greeting is friendly, but Andy notices that the doctor’s eyes don’t quite meet his own as they shake hands. The formality of the ritual seems almost comical to Andy-- it’s hard to be dignified with your ass hanging out the back of the exam gown.
“Give it to me straight Doc,” Andy tries to sound less worried than he feels. “How much time to do I have left?”
He’d meant the remark satirically, but the look on Dr. White’s face suggests that he’s more right than he suspected.
“I don’t know if I’d go that far.” Dr. White flips through some pages in Andy’s file. “The results of your tests aren’t great, but lets not bury you yet.”
Andy feels a chill run down his spine. “Well? Don’t keep me in suspense Doc, what’s going on?”
In a calm neutral tone, Dr. White patiently explains what the results of the vast work up of tests he ordered had to say. He shows Andy images of his brain, citing statistics and case studies, before ending with his final prognosis.
“You’ve got clusters of tumors scattered through out your brain primarily in the areas that are associated with creative thinking and imagination. Normally, we’d operate to remove the tumors, but in your case there are simply too many and some are embedded pretty deep that to go after them surgically could result in greater brain damage.”
“What about non surgical options?”
“Well, we could try to chemo or radiation but honestly, in my vast medical experience, this type of tumor almost never responds to that course of treatment.”
“So, you’re saying it’s hopeless. I’m as good as dead.” Andy blinks rapidly to keep the tears that threaten to unleash, at bay. His greatest fear was getting news like this, an even though he’d known this was a possible outcome. Hearing it said aloud felt like someone just punched him hard in the groin.
It was hard to breathe.
“I wouldn’t go so far as to say hopeless,” Dr. White replies calmly. “Yes, it doesn’t look good. We can’t treat surgically there’s no other way to get rid of the tumors. However, in this case the tumors are not known for spreading to other parts of the body. With a few lifestyle changes, I can see you living for years.”
“What kind of lifestyle changes?”
“Nothing major really. It’s not like you’d have to give up eating red meat and drinking beer.” Dr. White smiles as though he’s really delivering good news. “It’s really just a little thing, you just avoid over taxing the areas of your brain that are affected by the tumors.”
“What does that mean?”
“Oh, you know, keep creative thinking to an absolute minimum. No creative writing, drawing, painting, or anything similar. You can read, but even that I’d restrict, only hard news and instructional manuals-- no more novels.”
Andy stares at Dr. White, stunned.”Y-You’re kidding right? This is some kind of sick joke, I’m being Punk’d right now!”
“No, Mr. Warner, I’m actually quite serious. Engaging in any type of creative activity could over stimulate the areas of your brain compromised by the tumors. Drawing so much as a stick figure could literally kill you!”
“But Doc, you don’t understand, I’m an artist! My entire life, my whole career, everything I know and love, is based on creative thinking.”
Dr. White looks down at his watch and frowns. “I’d suggest, Mr. Warner, that if you value having a life at all, you’ll find another career. There are lots of different things you could do that are just as rewarding that don’t require creativity... I hear accounting can be fun.”
“But I’m terrible a math,” Andy’s voice hitches a bit in the back of his throat.
“Oh. Well, I’m sure there are lots of other options for you,” Dr. White glances at his watch again. “I’m sorry Mr. Warner. I hate to drop bad news and run but I’ve got a full schedule and I’m already behind. Take some time to process the news and mull things over. Just don’t think too long or...” Dr. White mimes a mini explosion coming out the side of his head with the corresponding sound effects. “I’m going to prescribe you something that should help dampen the creative areas, which you should start taking immediately, and I’ll see you back here next week.”
Dr. White jots down some notes in Andy’s file and turns to leave, pausing with his hand on the door. “I know that things sound bleak right now but I promise you’ll get through this. I’ve had lots of other patients who’ve gotten similar diagnoses and have gone on to live perfectly fulfilling, productive lives. Most don’t even miss their creativity and imaginations.”
Dr. White exits the room, leaving Andy to change out of the gown and back into his street clothes. When he finishes, Sarah pokes her head into the room.
“Dr. White wants you to come back next week for a follow up. In the meantime, here is the prescription, along with some instructions on what kinds of thoughts and activities you should be avoiding. He’s got you taking 100mg of Logizone. Take it once a day, preferably in the morning, with food. If you find yourself still thinking creatively you can increase the dosage 50mg at a time until you get to 200mg. Don’t take more than 200mg a day! The side effects are nominal, you might notice your more irritable than usual, but that should go away as you adjust to the medication. Other side effects include night sweats, constipation and/or irritable bowels, fatigue, muscle cramps and insomnia. If you start to experience dry or cotton mouth, seek medical attention right away.”
“Why? What’s the big deal with dry mouth.”
“Nothing really, but it could be a sign of a very rare and serious side effect that ends with your salivary glands imploding. But don’t worry, like I said it’s a rare side effect.”
Sarah gives Andy the prescription and other paperwork he needs before escorting him to the front desk. “You take care Mr. Warner, we’ll see you next week.”
Later that same day, Andy is hanging around the pharmacy waiting for his prescription to be filled. He’s still in a state of shock. Maybe he should call some one, he thinks-- his mom perhaps or Vanessa. Sure they broke up six months ago, but they’d been together for over five years and she did say she would always care about him.
Andy hears his name being called from the counter. He’s greeted by a dour faced pharmacy tech at the pick up window.
“I’m sorry Mr. Warner, but your insurance plan doesn’t cover Logizone.”
“What, why not? This is life and death here.”
The pharmacy tech shrugs. “I don’t know why, my guess would be cost.”
“Well, how much is it?”
“About $1,500 for a thirty day supply.”
“I can’t afford that!”
“Now you can guess why they wont cover it.”
“Isn’t there anything else? A generic version? I don’t mind generic drugs.”
“There is one other drug that looks like you’re insurance would cover... Ration-al. It’s pretty much the same as Logizone but different.”
“What’s the difference?”
“$500 a month.”
“Okay, then lets go with that...”
“You’re doctor would need to change the prescription order first.”
“Okay... so...”
“I can send your doctor an authorization change form, it should take up to a week for them to process and send it back.”
“But he says I need the prescription now! I could be dead in a week.”
The tech just shrugs her shoulders, there really isn’t much she can do in this situation. It’s not like she made the rules, she just has to follow them.
The pick up line behind Andy has grown since their interaction began. Andy can hear the growing sounds of impatience behind him as he struggles to figure out what to do next.
“I’m sorry Mr. Warner,” says the tech who doesn’t sound in the least bit sorry. “But you’re either going to have to pay full price for the Logizone or wait for the Order Change to go through. Either way, I have other people waiting to get their prescriptions.
Andy felt the tips of his years grow warm with embarrassment. He’d just been chastised like an errant child. He mutters something about calling Dr. White as he steps out of line...
“Finally,” someone mutters.
...And leaves.
Back home in his apartment, Andy sits alone in the dark mentally dissecting every moment of what has arguably been the worst day of his life. His eyes drift over to the easel and canvas sitting in the corner of the dinning area/art space. The painting was something he’d been working on when the headaches first started a few months ago. Months? It felt like a whole other lifetime. Headaches that prompted his visits to Dr. White and the start of this whole shit show.
There it sat, mocking him with its incompleteness. The last painting he would ever paint. Next to the easel, all of his brushes and paints laid out neatly, ready for use. Even those seemed to taunt him.
Absently, he picks up a brush-- running the tip along his hands. He could still smell the faint odor of paint clinging to the bristles.
“Even so much as a stick figure could kill you...”
Andy recalls Dr. White’s words of warning, but somehow they don’t strike the same fear they had before. To Andy, life without art wasn’t really much of a life at all. Maybe he’d rather sacrifice his life doing something he loved than live with out it.
Besides, he told himself. It’s just one doctor’s opinion, and since leaving the office Andy has started questioning Dr. White’s skills and credentials. For all he knew, he’d be just fine, better than fine even. Andy resolves to seek out another doctor first think the next morning.
In the mean time, just a little bit of painting couldn’t hurt-- right? He was feeling agitated and anxious, and painting always calmed him down. The canvas was mostly finished anyway, just a few touches here and there was all he needed for it to be complete. If this was to be his final piece, an epilogue to a long and productive career, then he’ll see to it that is is perfect.
Or die trying.
Holding the brush, Andy studies the painting a while longer. Picking up a little bit of pigment with his brush, he applies the paint to the canvas with a sure, if slightly unsteady hand. Andy quickly looses himself in the rhythm of the brush strokes and the texture of the paint. The world, Dr. White, everything is forgotten.
Andy Warner’s body was discovered about a week later, laying on the floor of his apartment in front of his easel, his paintbrush still in his hand.
Everyone associated with the case, police, medical examiners, etc. were stumped. There was nothing in Andy’s autopsy to suggest that anything was wrong-- medically speaking hie’d been a perfectly healthy man. The only suspicious clue was the prescription for Logizone on file in Andy’s name at the pharmacy. However, the doctor on record who prescribed the medication, Dr. White, could not have possibly written that prescription. Dr. Robert White had died nearly a decade before. He’d been the suspect in an active investigation around medical malpractice and fraud. He was known for giving his patients bogus diagnoses of a bizarre yet life threatening nature, then writing prescriptions for medications that were nothing more than sugar pills. After he died, no foul play suspected, the connection to the bogus drugs he prescribed dried up and the case was never completely solved.
Everything associated with the practice, medical files, employee records were long gone, and the building Andy had visited, and the room he’d waited in for what seemed like forever, had long been abandoned.
In the end, with no real lead, real answers, and with pressure from On High to stop wasting resources, the case of Andy Warner’s death was closed. On the paperwork, having no other causes listed Andy Warner’s death as...
Death by Imagination.
-- The Curious Case of Andy Warner by Sabrina Ehlert 2016
4. Accept that there is no one way to make it as a writer and that the definition of making it is fluid and tiered.
5. Accept that sometimes literary success is political and/or about who you know and that’s not likely to change. Yes, celebrities are going to keep publishing terrible books. Yes, Lisa Rinna’s Starlit is an actual thing. I read the book and… I’m scarred. But. You’re not getting better as a writer, worrying about the system.
5a. If you’re a woman, writer of color or queer writer, there are probably more barriers. Know that. Be relentless anyway. Strive for excellence. Learn how to kick the shit out of those barriers. Don’t assume every failure is about your identity because such is not the case.
6. Accept that sometimes cream actually does rise to the top and hard, consistent work will eventually get noticed, maybe not in the way you envisioned, but some way, some how.
7. Understand the actual odds and learn to love the slush pile. The slush pile is not your enemy. It’s actually one of your best friends.The truth is that a significant percentage of the slush pile, which I prefer to call the submission queue, is absolutely terrible because people are lazy and will submit any old thing. If you can write a good sentence you are already heads and shoulders above most of what is found in submission queues. You’re not competing against 10,000 submissions a year a magazine receives. You’re competing against more like 200. Those are still intimidating odds but they’re also far more reasonable.
8. Be nice. The community is small and everyone talks. Being nice does not mean eating shit. Being nice does not mean kissing ass. Being nice just means treating others the way you would prefer to be treated. If you’re comfortable being treated like an asshole, then by all means.
9. Know that more often than not, editors have your best interests at heart. Stand up for your writing but be open to editorial suggestions. A good editor is giving you feedback in service of your writing.
10. Ignore most of the atrocious writing advice that proliferates at such an alarming rate.
11. Stop listening to conspiracy theories about publishing.
12. Stop listening to doomsday predictions about publishing.
13. Don’t talk yourself out of the game by listening to conspiracy theories, doomsday predictions, and bad advice.
14. Make note of the distinction between writing and publishing. They are two very different things.
15. Know that you can get an agent through the mystically fearsome slushpile. It may be hard. It may take more time than you want but it can and does happen. I found my first agent through the slush pile. She’s great. My second agent found me because of essays I wrote. Sometimes people find agents at conferences, or through friends of a friend, or other such connections but you absolutely can go the old fashioned route.
15a. Do your research. Know what agents are interested in. Spell their names correctly. Have a book you give a damn about and make sure it shows. Know how to talk about your book.
15b. If you want to see a sample query letter, just ask a writer who successfully signed with an agent through the slush pile. They will probably share.
15c. This is an interesting take on navigating the business of agents.
15d. But don’t be so discouraged!
16. You do not need to live in New York to be a writer, though New York is great (dirty bathrooms aside) and it might be better if you live elsewhere and visit New York for a few days at at time.
17. Perspective is everything. Someone getting a book deal is not taking yours away. Success is not as finite as it seems–it’s a matter of luck, timing, and hard work. (Or sometimes, yes, who you know).
17a. You are neither as great or terrible a writer as you assume.
18. Know that sometimes you simply need to work harder and sometimes you’ve done the best you can do and there’s no shame in either.
19. Participate in the literary community in the ways you are comfortable participating. What matters is that you contribute. That could be subscribing to a magazine, attending a reading, volunteering at a literary magazine, and so on. (See #8)
20. Have an online presence or don’t. It’s shocking how much time writers spend stressing over this that could be spent writing. Yes, an online presence helps but only if you actually use it with some regularity. Plenty of writers don’t have a significant online presence and manage to still be writers. If you feel like having an online presence (Twitter, Facebook, Blog, Tumblr, whatever), is a pain in the ass, it’s going to show and it’s not worth having.
21. If you’re going to have a website, don’t have an ugly website. There’s no excuse anymore. If you cannot afford a designer, no problem. Use a content management system like Wordpress or Tumblr and a nice template.
22. You will probably need a job unless you’re fine with financial stress. Yes you can have a job and be a writer. It happens all the time. I used to be fine with financial stress because I was young and my fantasies were exciting. I am not anymore because I am old and I love my apartment and health insurance and buying stupid shit. A job facilitates these things so keep it in mind. There are worse things than a job.
23. Learn to deal with rejection. You don’t have to like it. You can sulk and whine and cry. You can blog about it. Just know that publishing involves rejection far more than acceptance. It’s easier if you can process that early on.
23 a. Maybe don’t write editors who reject you to call them names. That doesn’t ever end well.
24. Have other hobbies. Don’t be one of those people who only writes and can only talk about writing. My hobbies are embarrassing but I do have them and am grateful to have them.
Another Japanese ale lurking around the back of my refrigerator. Once again, I mostly picked this one out because I thought the label looked kinda cool.
Loosely translated, the name of the beer is “Wednesday Cat”
Yoho Brewing Company, Nagano Japan
Stlye: Belgian Style White Ale
Another well make beer, it tastes good, malty, low bitterness. But again another beer that’s kind of a snooze to…
After days and weeks of work, I finally finished all of the artwork for the Left Hand Artist Group Label Art Show this Saturday! Time to celebrate, and to savor the completion of many hours of work I’ve chosen from one of my favorite breweries… Mokra Funkwerks Brewing Style: Barrel-Aged Black Saison We picked this beer up over the weekend when we went up to the brewery and I’ve been looking…
Tonight I was helping out to set up for tomorrows #LabelSh0w over at Left Hand Brewing so of course for my beer selection tonight I went for… Black Jack w/ Cascade and Cinnamon Left Hand Brewing Company, Longmont Colorado Style: Porter The name of the beer is pretty self explanatory, Left Hand took some of their and casked it with cascade and cinnamon. I like that Left Hand does a lot of mall…
Tonight was the Left Hand Artist Group Label show, the culmination of months worth of work. There was a lot of beer around tonight, unfortunately nothing I hadn’t had before, so I had to wait until I got home to try something new. I’ve got my new Beeramander and some… Espresso Stout Hitachino Nest Kuchi Brewery Japan Style: Espresso Stout I don’t know if it’s because I’m tired, or the beer I…
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