Deep Autumn

We are still inching toward darkness, the time of year of woodsmoke, decaying pine, and shadows. Bonfires, traces of first frost, and hints of magic. Long hours reading in cozy cafes, studying in libraries, creating sigils by candlelight. Long walks through darkening wood, cold, sandy beach, or stone paths through quaint streets of cities and villages where the sky opens and pours starlight and love from the deepest of distances. 

A part of me wishes I still had the steady beat of experiential seasons, seasons of youth--the deep autumns of Ohio, Montana, northern California, the mountains of New Mexico. But I can recreate them, reexperience them through my imagination and words. Lived and relived, again and again. Like dogeared pages, faded scars, and thick, worn fabrics. 

I deep dive into dark academia, portal fiction, and the softest speculative. As lost in these worlds as I am my own, sometimes it's hard to distinguish them. Immersed in traveling, reading, and working on several writing projects, I follow my own seasonal trajectory these days which completely breaks down in the face of reality, like reaching a singularity, like drinking moonlight through the skin.

Wrap yourself in the warmest of comforts, fireside shadows, and soft lighting. And dig in to deep autumn reading to spark creativity and otherworldly magic lurking in the depths of your being. 

We Love You, Bunny by Mona Awad 🐰 If you thought Bunny was a wild, unhinged ride, just wait. If you thought the boundaries of metaphor and allegory couldn't be pushed anymore, you're in for quite the tumble down a rabbit hole where you might not find your way out. 

The Ten Thousand Doors of January by Alix E Harrow 🚪 People like to talk about how writers have a command of language as though they've somehow domesticated it, tamed it, taken the reigns of control, as though it's a good thing. This novel does the opposite. Harrow flings words on the page like paint on canvas, wild and uncontrollable, creating art more awe-inspiring than any author with so called command. A celebration of language and stories, escapism and belonging. Wander, get lost, find magic through every door. Taste it, feel it, experience it. 

Beautyland by Marie-Helene Bertino 👽 There is never an easy answer to why some of us are wired so differently, why our thought processes and feelings and perceptions seem so disparate from the rest of humanity. This novel explores these questions in one of the most, beautiful, resonant, and refreshing ways. In a world of disconnect and othering, it reconnects us to something beyond, to something within us no one else can touch. 

Where do you spend your deep autumns--immersed in fantastical worlds, meandering in crisp, cool nature, or invoking incantations in the light of bonfires or candlelight or fireplaces? Or like me, drinking from all of them until they seep from your very being.

The Solstice Pause

The days grow long and languid, and spring memories are still strong. Spring was the season of travel and lightness, writing routines and consuming books. Island hopping around northern Raja Ampat, spending as much time in water as on land. Allowing the darkness of the previous year (and even years prior) to unstick and flow through me into the ocean where it dissolves. Coming away from that trip, the difference in my body and mind was palpable. As though I stepped onto those islands as one person, but came away a lighter version of myself. The epitome of spring.

Spring reflects an opening, a blossoming, moving into the fullest expression. Then a pause, culminating at the solstice, the longest day, the beginning of summer--living in daylight, shining a spotlight on all things hidden--the good, the bad, and everything in-between. 

And sometimes the fullest expression of what comes forward may not be the sweetest or the lightest as summer can hold heaviness too--the heaviness of heat and humidity, of monsoon rains and winds, of scorching, cloudless sky, sunburns and sticky skin. I think of driving through eastern California, brushing against Death Valley, uncontrollable forest fires, and crowded beaches. A time of year when I want to hide. But I also think of starry Wyoming skies, fierce thunderstorms, and wide open spaces. Turning my face toward the sun, allowing it to radiate and nourish me. Allowing in all the magic the solstice can bring and the summer days that follow. 

This year my summer days are filled with swimming and reading in the sun. When it comes to summer reading, many people recommend lighter reading, beach reads. Perhaps to alleviate the heaviness and heat. But I'm going to go in the opposite direction. I'm going to recommend books that lean into heaviness, the weight of summer, the way tropical humidity or desert dryness can't be lifted. And when something heavy can't be lifted, the only way through it is to lean in and sink until you come out the other side.

Books that lean into summertime heaviness so far the only way out is to sink into them:

The Beach by Alex Garland 🏝️

If you like your beach reads full of mental unraveling, hallucinations, and nightmarish utopias, this is your book. Apocalypse Now meets Lord of the Flies. It will make you think twice about seeking paradise on a far flung deserted, tropical island. The center cannot hold. It never does. 

The Lightness by Emily Temple ☸️

Like Dark Academia, but for Tibetan Buddhists. When Olivia takes off in search of her missing father at a remote monastery, she ends up at a summer Buddhist retreat for teenaged girls where she joins a secret group intent to harness the power to levitate. What could go wrong? 

The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver ⛪

An American southern Baptist missionary family moves to the Congo (circa 1960) and pushes their religion and ways of life into the village and onto the people. Insanity ensues. The story spans from their arrival through the devastating aftermath of it all. 

A Field Guide to Getting Lost by Rebecca Solnit 💫

A meditative exploration on the meaning of lost--getting lost, losing things, the familiar falling away. Can we lose something we never knew we had to begin with? Can we find something that we don't know exists? A meandering journey toward the unreachable, distant blue of the horizon. 

As we sit here at the far edge of earth's tilt and pause, do you surrender to the lightness or to the heaviness? 

What is on your list to read this summer? Do the stories you read move you toward the airy, lightness of summer or the weight of its heaviness? 

Gratitude and Books

I recently returned home from spending a month in a remote area of Bali, editing and putting final touches on my novel. And a few days ago I sent them to my agent. It has been a journey and half getting here. It has taken years of patience and perseverance, a labor of love and sacrifice. It's taken failing again and again, yet not giving up on my vision and dream. Above all, I am grateful for the way it has unfolded. Timing is everything. 

In fact, I'm grateful for a lot these days in this ever madding world. And one of those things is books. Not only having the time and space to write them, but also read them. I've more than enough posts on writing and books and how they have impacted my life, so for the first time, I will write about some of my favorites, ones that I am grateful exist and what they mean to me. These are not reviews or summaries, but something more. They are about what gives the stories pulse and beauty and how they (though fiction) speak a truth that could not be told in any other way. 

Bunny by Mona Awad 🐰 Life as metaphor 

This entire novel is written as a metaphor for the creative process--at times alienating, horrific, twisted, and dark, but also playful, whimsical, clever, and a bit genius. A love letter to the imagination, Mona Awad once stated in an interview. A surreal and messy experience from start to finish. To live creatively can feel like this a lot of the time, at least for me when I'm deep into a project. But why would I want it to be any other way? Life is surreal and messy, but also achingly beautiful. I take it all in. I write it all out. 

The Secret History by Donna Tartt 🕮 Life in the shadow of story

Donna Tartt, the goddess of dark academia, birthed a genre that makes you think about university life (and misspent youth) in an entirely new way. Our life experiences, especially when we are young, shape us whether we want to admit to it or not. No matter how much therapy or healing we might try, there are some experiences that will always haunt us, that will always live in the shadows of our life story, peering over our shoulder, waiting on us to look back. 

Richard Papen, our protagonist, sets us up for this in the prologue: I suppose at one time in my life I might have had any number of stories, but now there is no other. This is the only story I will ever be able to tell. We can either use this to our advantage or let it eat us alive. This book has taught me how to turn pain into story, into art. Take that one story, and instead of allowing it to take your life, use it to create.

Story of Your Life by Ted Chiang ॐ Life as language

Bound by language, it informs our reality including the way we experience time. Here in this reality, we use linear language and therefore experience linear time. So in this life, whether we have free will or if our lives are predetermined isn't the point. It's how we respond in every given moment, for better or worse. Even if we know the future as it moves straight toward us, we aren't going to know that experience and our reaction to it until it actually happens--like light hitting water, will it take the minimum or maximum route? 

Character Louise asks us in the end: From the beginning I knew my destination....But am I working toward an extreme of joy, or of pain? A lesson that comes up again and again--when confronted with the shocking, the confusing, the unexpected, can you take a step back and allow it come at you in slow motion?  Whether it hits in a moment of joy or pain, it can be processed and transmuted for the better. Or so I'd like to think. 

Station Eleven by Emily St. John Mandel ∞ Life as interwoven connection

I read this book back in early April while island hopping around Raja Ampat, the eastern most region of Indonesia. Remote and cut off from the rest of the world, it made me think about how interconnected the world truly is. Part of Station Eleven takes place in a post apocalyptic world, but focuses on those intricate interconnections made prior, those connections that survived. We see these connections travel over time and place and through the different characters. And how small gestures of creativity and kindness can impact others in such a way it gets them through something apocalyptic (even a real apocalypse) and will remain long after. 

What are some books you are grateful for that have impacted your life in unexpected and beautiful ways?

Worlds of Words

"What an astonishing thing a book is....one glance at it and you're inside the mind of another person....perhaps the greatest of human inventions, binding people together who never knew each other, citizens of distant epochs. Books break the shackles of time. A book is proof that humans are capable of working magic." --Carl Sagan

Something akin to telepathy, books bring you inside the mind of another, far removed from where you stand, transmitting thoughts and insights and channeled worlds directly to you here, now. I can I travel deeper and further than anywhere I could reach on earth--through time and space, the world over, and into dimensions and realities that I otherwise would not have access. 

I've written about this idea before--from my experiences of looking up into a dark, clear moonless night sky to sitting in deep meditation--tapping into realms beyond what can physically be seen or experienced. But in the case of reading, I stare at words and allow my imagination to transport me elsewhere--to a time, place, land, culture, body, or mind, that is unknown to me. I lose myself in these worlds and bring pieces of them back into my reality. Perpetually shifting the way I think about and see the world around me and the people in it. 

Donna Tartt had once said in an interview that reading was a kind of concentrated experience, one that adds to our understanding of human nature that is otherwise very difficult to have. I believe this is true. As an undergraduate, I studied psychology, but about halfway through my program, I became disillusioned with the whole idea. The best way to know people, human nature, and the world outside of our own experiences and interactions is by reading. And so, I abandoned the idea of studying psychology and became even more of an avid reader of literature and eventually a writer, a creator of worlds. 

I lose myself in these worlds of words, and then I rip them apart. I analyze the structure, the voice, the craft, and the whys and the hows. Whereas writing, for me, is an intuitive act that sprouts from elsewhere, reading (including my own work) is an act of purposeful exploration, pulling back veils and uncovering the hidden layers between the written words. 

And so, in the spaces between traveling, I'll be exploring these spaces between words and sharing the multilayered universes of books. Those worlds of words that have left me spellbound and changed. I will write about individual books and my favorite genres. Expect speculative science fiction, dark academia, magical realism, and postmodern / experimental of all various forms. And I might throw in some memoir and nonfiction too. 

And now, where to begin? 

I will let the seasons and general happenings in my life dictate. What is resonate at that moment. I keep so much inside--what wants to spill out? What books do I keep revisiting in my mind, mulling over and over until I want to burst? That is where I will start. 

And what about you? What books do you want to step inside of and never leave? What books haunt you? Which ones have stuck with you over time and changed your life and they way you see the world out there? 

Stardust and Stories

"We are all stardust and stories." --Erin Morgenstern

The stories from elsewhere come in waves, often times when I least expect it--never when I see fields of flowers or kites or wandering muddy jungle trails alone in cool early morning hours. They come when I hear clips of random music or when I'm staring at the ceiling after a yoga practice. Or, most often, staring at a star filled sky on a clear, moonless night, tapping into the ether beyond time and space. Stories caught in timeless moments like crystalized snowflakes. At one point in my life, they were my only moments of peace.

Sometimes the stories come in moments of stillness on nights of chaos when the music is too loud and when my brain starts to short circuit from overstimulation. This world is only gonna break your heart. A chorus whispered through what I think might be a love song, albeit a disturbing one. A song I'd not given much thought to until recently, and I think: Should be the disclaimer before signing onto this planet. A place where stories tighten around throats.

If all stories come from outside time and space where all possible stories exist, then we are the containers that catch them and they live through, permeating our psyche and shaping our lives. But these human containers are so small and narrow, each one a sliver of all possibilities. A memory from a forgotten dream perhaps. Or maybe from a chapter in the Yoga Sutras of Patanjali. Either way, the idea has haunted me for years.

I spend good chunks of my day thinking about story structures and how one tells a story is just as important as the themes or plot or character development. I think about astrophotography and nesting boxes and charm bracelets, and how anything can contain a story if you're willing to let it. 

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I started reading the Starless Sea because of a really bad review a friend wrote about it. She didn't just simply say it was a bad book. She took her review to such an extreme it actually made me want to read it. And so I did. 

I've never read a more Murakami book not written by Murakami. Intertwining stories hidden within stories. Keys that unlock painted doors that lead to other worlds, other stories. Mysterious characters that lure unsuspecting protagonists into adventure and danger. Also, elevators, food, and cats. 

Like Murakami, Erin Morgenstern leads you through trap doors to underworlds, into your psyche, full of twists and turns and crossroads and choices. The meandering nature leaves you wondering if the story will actually lead anywhere. But unlike Murakami, her story does lead somewhere--into new stories, a never ending sea of stories, not unlike the akasha, the ether beyond time and space. (She also references the Secret History which I can't decide if I find endearing or pretentious). 

The Starless Sea is undefined and loose, its intertwining stories build slowly around structures like vines. Tales trapped in webs. Questions caught in labyrinths. I think about the myth of the Argus, the eyes in the sky, witnessing all the stories at once. And how the only place for stories to hide is beneath the surface of the earth, hidden from stars, from our eyes, where myths drown in a sea of honey and fate and time cross paths again and again and again.

It is thick with metaphors and symbolism, and like the structure, they are loose and undefined. It's up to the reader to attach meaning to them, to weave their own stories into the mess of story fragments scattered throughout the book. I think that's what makes it so frustrating for readers, nothing is explained to you. You are spoon fed nothing but vivid imagery and symbols and characters constantly getting lost. But I also think that's what makes this story so compelling and beautiful. It's a lot like life on planet Earth--a bunch of lost people with nothing to go on but the mess of stories filled in their containers. 

The Starless Sea isn't and never will be timely. Only timeless. Instead of attempting to make sense of things, it embraces the senselessness and chaos. I'd like to think the world needs more stories like this. But what do I know.

What are your thoughts on story structure? When you read, do you ever think about the structure and how it can shape your interpretation of the story?