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Today I saw a painting of a derelict house against a setting sun. The whole thing was oranges and reds, framed by trees in full autumn plumage. Except this wasn't a painting. It was the charred frame of a burnt house, surrounded by burning trees shaking in the wind. The sun was shimmering in the background because it was veiled in smoke. All of this was a moment in someone else's nightmare, in the desert of southern California. If I didn't live in this state and saw our own sky over San Francisco turn red—beautiful, translucent red—I would perhaps be more driven to wonder over how any of this news made sense. How does a desert city burn from a forest fire? But the photos show Joshua Trees with strands of embers weaving around them, like if you took a photo of people dancing in fluorescent jewelry after dark.
The rather more familiar northern forest fires hem us in with its own smoke. Between heatwaves, an assortment of sinus pains and full workdays, it's hard not to stay tired. It's been a thoroughly tiring year. I'm still immensely grateful to be where I am. I can't underscore that enough. I'm grateful I live here and I wake up every day amazed that I am married to this amazing person who is perfectly fine with me whittling away at strange little video games, reading dangerous books and ensuring our cat is sufficiently kissed on the head. (As we know, cats that are insufficiently kissed on the head become feral.) But for all that my life is good, I don't, as a rule, expect good news. Have you seen this year? I'm already existentially terrified I could be torn away from my dear husband and cat over some missed comma of government bureaucracy. I prepared myself long ago that the current state of things will just be another post-election of the same.
Yet, here we are. Finches, the novella I've been trying to get out there for the past decade, is getting published in October 2021 by Vernacular Books. I'm currently in edits for the manuscript, which I hope to get out in the next month. To me, Finches is primarily built on betrayal. What does it mean to not live what you preach? What does it mean when your faith tells you a class of people should be beneath you, but in reality these untouchables are the most genuine representations of god's grace that you know? How do you parse all that when these people are your spouses and parents and siblings? It's a horror story—because I may not know how to write anything else—but I think horror is primarily a representation of our horror at what the world has become. In that sense, the world inside Finches is the place I grew up in, my acknowledgement that this awful, chauvinistic capture-in-time is true to its nature and how very much I wished it wasn't so. The nihilist in me knows nothing will change and I want to prove myself wrong. So as the parent of this maybe slightly dangerous book, I put it out there and hope someone listens.
The rather more familiar northern forest fires hem us in with its own smoke. Between heatwaves, an assortment of sinus pains and full workdays, it's hard not to stay tired. It's been a thoroughly tiring year. I'm still immensely grateful to be where I am. I can't underscore that enough. I'm grateful I live here and I wake up every day amazed that I am married to this amazing person who is perfectly fine with me whittling away at strange little video games, reading dangerous books and ensuring our cat is sufficiently kissed on the head. (As we know, cats that are insufficiently kissed on the head become feral.) But for all that my life is good, I don't, as a rule, expect good news. Have you seen this year? I'm already existentially terrified I could be torn away from my dear husband and cat over some missed comma of government bureaucracy. I prepared myself long ago that the current state of things will just be another post-election of the same.
Yet, here we are. Finches, the novella I've been trying to get out there for the past decade, is getting published in October 2021 by Vernacular Books. I'm currently in edits for the manuscript, which I hope to get out in the next month. To me, Finches is primarily built on betrayal. What does it mean to not live what you preach? What does it mean when your faith tells you a class of people should be beneath you, but in reality these untouchables are the most genuine representations of god's grace that you know? How do you parse all that when these people are your spouses and parents and siblings? It's a horror story—because I may not know how to write anything else—but I think horror is primarily a representation of our horror at what the world has become. In that sense, the world inside Finches is the place I grew up in, my acknowledgement that this awful, chauvinistic capture-in-time is true to its nature and how very much I wished it wasn't so. The nihilist in me knows nothing will change and I want to prove myself wrong. So as the parent of this maybe slightly dangerous book, I put it out there and hope someone listens.
