Bug Juice

 Writers take names rather seriously.  We look them up, research their origins, debate the syllables.  We even test how they sound whispered in dramatic confrontations.  We cross out perfectly fine names because they're not "right."

And then there's the names your mother gives you.

I was "Bug Juice."

Yep, that's a bug.

No idea where it came from.  Even Mom didn't have an answer.  No folklore, no family legend, no dramatic insect related incident in early childhood.  I was just "Bug Juice."

I wasn't particularly buggy and I don't recall being particularly juicy.

And yet, there was that name.

There's something deeply humbling about realizing no matter how many elegant names you go by, no matter how carefully you construct your literary persona, somewhere in the universe, you are still Bug Juice.

Apparently, I have always been named after questionable substances.

And honestly? That feels on brand.

When Your Editor Has Paws

Every writer talks about the importance of a good editor.  You know, someone to keep you focused.  Someone who makes sure you're not drifting off course.  Someone who physically stands on your writing to prevent further revisions.

She's helping!

I was revising some writing I had done on a sheet of paper.  One of those fragile little paragraphs that could tilt either towards brilliance or complete nonsense.  That's when I noticed the unmistakable weight of oversight.

I was halfway through adjusting a paragraph—one of those fragile little paragraphs that could tilt either toward brilliance or complete nonsense—when I felt the unmistakable weight of a feline's gaze.

Freya had decided that whatever I was doing was either:

1. Taking too long

2. Not involving her

3. In need of immediate intervention

There is something uniquely humbling about having your creative momentum paused by a calico who believes the correct placement for her paws is precisely over the most important sentence.

I attempted diplomacy.

She refused to move.

I attempted redirection via the form of her favorite treats.

She stared at me.

Eventually I accepted the truth: the scene was finished.  Not because I had completed it, but because my editor had declared it so.

Writers talk about deadlines.

Freya talks about naps.

And in the hierarchy of this household, naps outrank narrative arcs.

In fairness, she has a point.  Sometimes when I push too hard on a paragraph, it stiffens.  When I step away, or when I am forcibly stepped away, the writing breathes again.

Freya would never admit that’s what she’s doing.  She prefers to maintain the illusion of chaos.

But I suspect she understands something important:  Not all interruptions are sabotage.  Some are reminders to soften your grip.

Even if they arrive with paws.

 

May the harp of Erin never be out of tune—and may your words always know where to land. 

Happy St. Patrick’s Day from The Gourd & the Quill.

Killian is prepared to die. Lark is prepared to improvise.

 

Killian will die for honor.

Lark will fake her death and steal your boots.

I love this meme, and not just because I laugh and my friends and I come up with jokes, but because it assumes death is the ultimate literary statement.  Killian would agree.  He believes in principles worth dying for, rules that must be followed, and consequences that should be faced head-on.

Lark, on the other hand, believes that dying is a terrible waste of time when there are still exits to find, pockets to pick, and plans to revise.

I don’t write stories where characters rush toward death for neat thematic closure.  My story of Killian and Lark is one character insists on honor and the other insists on surviving—and neither is willing to yield.  That tension is far more dangerous than death ever is.

And let's add a few more because they're too good to pass up on.

Killian: I will die for honor.

Lark: I will live out of sheer defiance.

~*~

Killian: I will die for my rules.

Lark: I will steal the rules and leave.

~*~

Killian: I will die for the cause.
Lark: You could simply…not.

Why do I write?

I don’t write because I think stories fix everything.

They don’t, but it would be much easier if they do.

But I do believe stories can make people braver—and sometimes that’s enough to change a life.

For the life of me, I can't think of a funny joke to put here.

When I say braver, I don’t mean fearless.  I don’t mean bold speeches or dramatic transformations or suddenly knowing exactly who you are.  That type of knowledge comes from within.  I mean the smaller, harder kind of courage.  The kind that lets you try again.  The kind that whispers maybe when everything else is saying don’t.

Bravery isn’t always loud.  Sometimes it’s choosing to speak up and being honest when it would be easier to stay quiet.  Sometimes it’s allowing yourself to want something, even if you don’t know how to get it yet.  Sometimes it’s recognizing that the part of you you were told to hide might actually be the part that's keeping you alive.

When I write, I’m not trying to hand anyone answers.  I’m trying to make space.

Space for characters who don’t behave.

Space for emotions that don’t resolve cleanly.

Space for readers to see themselves reflected without being corrected.

I want my writing to say: you’re not broken for feeling this way.

I want it to say: other people have stood where you’re standing.

I want it to say: you’re allowed to keep going, even if you don’t feel ready.

Sometimes that bravery looks like laughing at something that tried to hurt you.  Sometimes it looks like choosing tenderness when cynicism would be safer.  Sometimes it looks like refusing to disappear.

I didn’t always feel brave.  I still don’t, some days.  But stories helped me practice courage before I had the language for it.  They showed me that fear and strength aren’t opposites—that they often walk into the room together.

If my writing does anything, I hope it offers that same quiet permission.

Permission to try.

Permission to be complicated.

Permission to take up space.

Permission to survive loudly or softly, as needed.

You don’t have to become someone else to be brave.

You don’t have to behave perfectly.

You don’t have to know how the story ends.

Sometimes bravery is just turning the page.

And if my words help someone do that—even once—then they’ve done exactly what I hoped they would.