Question For Female Readers Here


I just had a discussion with a nice, but I think very misinformed guy on Twitter, where he said that the reason so few comics are written by women (I guess he doesn’t count alt comics, webcomics, mini comics and manga as ‘comics’) was because women simply are not interested in writing them.

So I am checking here and on Twitter.

If you identify as female, and you have some aspirations, even far-off ones, to make comics of some kind, can you post here and let us know?

I just am curious if there is a genuine paucity of women wanting into the comics creation business.

HI!  HI!  ME!  HI!  HI!  HELLO!  HI!

Sorry about that.  I don’t exactly make it a secret that I want to write comics some day.  I’ve got multiple scripts in varying stages of finished that I continue to work on, including one that is seriously My Dream Project and is being reserved until I either can’t hold back anymore or, ideally, my name is out there as a creator and I can launch it with some serious pomp (and have access to my dream team of artists to do the book slam-style).  I have indie ideas, I have ideas about licensed comics for the WWE (SERIOUSLY, SHIELD COMIC, I WANT TO DO THIS, GET TO ME ABOUT THIS), I have ideas about existing properties (my growing list of “shit I will be asking DC/Marvel permission to do when they finally bring me on-board).  I have an eventual webcomic about a college for Super Villains (and a long lasting idea about The Real World: Skullcrusher Island).

I have a lot of fear of failure and the worry that I’m going to be impossible for an artist to work with.  But I want to.  I have a desire to do so.  And the fact that I am a lady has nothing to do with the fact that I haven’t yet.

So that dude is butts.

He is mega butts.

comics writing writing comics that dude is such butts

They say “If you are going through Hell, keep going.”

I think that’s incredibly unhelpful.  Who knows how far Hell goes on?  How much further are you going to have to trek through the muck and the stench before you even get close to out of Hell?  And really, where are you headed when you get out?  Will leaving Hell just lead you back to a 9 to 5 desk job which you remind yourself, constantly, to endure because that’s just how it works? Is it really worth it at that point?  Hell is Hell, but at least the scenery changes.


Or are you bound for Heaven?  Isn’t Heaven perfect?  Can perfection ever change?  What if Heaven isn’t all it’s cracked up to be?


If you are going through Hell, stop and take in the sights.  Imagine the best place for your summer home, a Starbucks, a vintage clothing store.  If you did a little landscaping it might be half-liveable, and sometimes that’s more than you can say for your non-Hell lifestyle.  It’ll never be a white picket fence perfectly tended yard two point five kids and a dog sort of place, but that’s really for the best, isn’t it?

If you’re going through Hell, step off the beaten path.  Your Virgil may protest, but do you really just wanna see what they put out for the tourists?  If you really wanna get to know a place, you have to ask the locals.


If you’re going through Hell, raise some. It can’t get any worse, you’re already in Hell, what do you have to be afraid of?  Stoic suffering isn’t noble, it isn’t commendable, it is self-serving.  It is for your martyrdom and ego.  Hell doesn’t need another martyr and your ego doesn’t mean much there.  


If you’re going through Hell, pick up a souvenir.  And grab some for your friends while you’re at it.

hell writing heaven scenery going through hell Starbucks

Excerpt From the Current Project

When I was 15 I believed, in a very naive teenage way, that the most romantic thing a person could ever do was request and dedicate a song to you on the radio.  Not just any song.  One particular song that they knew was just right, not because they’d asked you, not because you’d told them, but because they were on that same wavelength with you and understood how you felt about music.

I’ve never had a song dedicated to me on the radio.  Or at a school dance.  Or anywhere for that matter.  Nobody ever seemed to realize, or care, how much something like that would mean to me.  Nobody ever had a song for me.  

Or at least, nobody ever had a song for me that they would let me hear.

This is a work of nonfiction and I have no idea where it is going, but I swear it will not name names.

music writing non fiction

I was trying to find resources to send to my mother who doesn’t understand that not everything I do artistically has some monetary or career-focused goal, and that sometimes I need to write just to write without plans to sell it or even knowing what the hell it is.
This was Google’s first suggestion.
Google.  You are not helping.

I was trying to find resources to send to my mother who doesn’t understand that not everything I do artistically has some monetary or career-focused goal, and that sometimes I need to write just to write without plans to sell it or even knowing what the hell it is.

This was Google’s first suggestion.

Google.  You are not helping.

writing art parents mothers artists





And it’s always the same 2 blue eyes comparisons. The ocean or the sky. Like come on at least be creative.

His eyes were as blue as the blue liquid used in commercials for Always Pads.

His eyes were as blue as the lips on a corpse in the morgue

As he was dying, he looked at me, and I stared back into those eyes. those eyes that were as blue as the anti-freeze i’d laced his whiskey with.

And in that moment, as I pushed past him on my way to the door of the hotel room, I swear his eyes were as blue as his balls.

(via )


My third hand’s in your kitchen
re-arranging the spice cabinet
it cannot do the dishes right
it doesn’t get them clean enough.
My third hand stays out of your bedroom
it’s not that inconsiderate
it hovers in the hallway
it wouldn’t enter if you invited it.
My third hand passes the collection plate
without adding any offerings.
I’ve only beads and trinkets
and your God has no use for them.
My third hand is awkward on the sidewalk
and even worse when we get intimate.
It is always grabbing for some small mercy
holding on, desperate to stay relevant.
My third hand is just a phantom limb
that you seem to feel, but then forget about.
In a world that lives to pair things off
it is an unwelcome anomaly.
What does it connect to?
And how does it continue?
It’s just making you uncomfortable.
So you cut if off,
for you it’s painless.

poetry things I find on notebook paper writing

Submissions Needed for Interfictions Debut Issue!

The Interstitial Arts Foundation (IAF) is going online with their Interfictions series, and will open up for submissions starting February 1st!  We’re looking for all KINDS of stuff that blurs the lines drawn in literary circles and challenges and changes the perception of what is possible in writing.

So, if you have something, please consider submitting it!  And if nothing else, PLEASE pass this link along to your other writer-ly type friends.  This is only the first issue, there’s plans for the future, and we need your help!

writing iaf fiction poetry prose submissions open submissions writers submit