ABOUT
THE MIND BEHIND THE ARCHIVE
“Writing is my outlet. I choose silent words to express myself. Where others need to talk, vent, or scream, I let the ink flow until the bones in my right hand lock in place. Then I move with my elbow, with a stiff wrist and hand, in order to keep the words coming.”
I am a woman of old things: customs, ambience, art, and memories that existed before I was born. When friends tell me they crave the city skyscrapers, I dream of Oxford. When someone rocks out to Metallica in a mosh pit, I am swaying to Gregorian chants amidst stained glass.
These are the things that trigger my thoughts. And these are the thoughts that make it onto paper.
My first book was published when I was nine years old in 1994, Dartmouth, Massachusetts. I made it out of cardboard, wallpaper scraps, and glue. It was about a melted snowman, which made my child protagonist very sad, but with perseverance, the child rebuilt his new friend. I used a typewriter and illustrated the pictures with a pencil.
Since, I have been transcribing notes from books I’ve read. I’ve been attending college simply to study advance English courses since 2004, but do not have a degree. I’ve attended the Institute of Children’s Literature but dropped out, and have collected about 150 private journals that I have either archived or burned. That might even be a conservative number. Other writings are somewhere in a hacked email account, now being used to sell bitcoin in my name.
Over time, these notes have compiled to become essays, allegories, and field notes exploring grief, identity, folklore, loneliness, attachment, memory, and quiet complexities of being human. Contrary to what you may take out of this, I am a positive and optimistic person who adores pastels, plush objects, and cuddles. I was born on Halloween so, it’s fate I write about macabre things and make people cry.
“I am less interested in answers than I am in honest examination.”