from the pen of icarus blake

And so here we are.

Back after a long hiatus of working on things in the comforting dark of internet obscurity and not sharing. Because it’s none of your business, really, this voyeuristic/narcissistic practice of journaling to the internet for a like or two.

But I must, right? I’m a writer, and what’s the point of writing for no audience? Keeping all these lovely-worded thoughts inside my own damn head. They don’t matter, not when the world is burning the way it is, but somehow the impending doom of climate crisis makes it matter more. The things that don’t matter. The little self indulgent treat.

I’m working on final revisions for my first book, Manticore. I call it my test book, the thing with which I learn the ropes of self publishing, but that’s no excuse not to treat it the same way I’d treat my other works (my Magnum Opi, but that’s neither here nor there). I like it, it’s coming along nicely, even though it fits solidly in the dark romance/queer smut genre that I often can’t stomach.

Not that there aren’t great self published works in those genres, just that filtering through the gunk written for a quick wank and buck is more trouble than it’s worth. I let my husband do it for me.

Which is to say, I’m married. An affair planned in 7 days, a wedding held over pancakes with a centerpiece of white and black lilies obviously intended for a funeral and heirloom rings exchanged on cheap rope chains purchased from Michael’s two days prior. Our wedding cake was a gold-sprinkled cinnamon roll. On the house.