Don't Let Your Day Fuck Up Your Night
Some weeks, the weight of leadership, bad decisions, and life's bullshit gets pretty fucking heavy. But when I walk through the door at night, I don't want to dump that weight on the woman I love. Life has taught me how precious those ordinary evenings really are, and I'm not about to let somebody else's bullshit steal them.
One Fucking Year
One year ago, an evening motorcycle ride left me broken on Cerrillos Road. Broken bones, surgeries, months of rehabilitation, and nights spent crying when nobody was watching. But somewhere in the hardest fucking year of my life, I found love, purpose, and something I hadn't truly possessed before: a sense of my own worth. I'm not grateful for the accident. I'm grateful I survived it.
The Final Chapter
My day job woke me up. My writing career kept me awake. Somewhere between midnight emails, publishing expenses, Undertow, and another book I haven’t fucking written yet, I realized writing isn’t just something I’m doing. It’s what I intend to carry with me to the final door.
The Reaper’s Kiss
There’s a difference between watching somebody face death and being the person staring through the fucking door. Once you’ve crossed that threshold and somehow come back, mortality stops being an idea. Tomorrow isn’t promised. You know that in your fucking bones.
Twenty Fucking Feet
There was a trash can twenty fucking feet away. Instead, she left her cup, spilled drink, wrappers, and the remains of a jelly donut in the street for somebody else to clean up. It’s a tiny thing, until you realize how perfectly it represents the difference between liberty and entitlement.
Thanks for the Material, Asshole
The danger of putting your work into the world is that everybody has a fucking mouth, and the internet gave everybody balls. One anonymous asshole decided to make fun of a tooth I’m still dealing with after nearly dying in a motorcycle crash. Unfortunately for him, he picked on a fucking writer.
The Fucking Cage
A car gets you from one place to another. A motorcycle puts you inside every fucking mile between them. The temperature, the wind, the smells, the landscape. You don't pass through the world. You enter it. Unfortunately, sometimes love and logistics mean climbing into the fucking cage anyway.
Apparently, I’m an Author Now
I fucking hate marketing. I hate self-promotion. But apparently, somewhere between making sell sheets, sending books to festivals, volunteering at booths, and planning a motorcycle trip to Tucson around a fucking book festival, something changed. I finally stopped treating writing like something I do and started accepting that being an author is part of who I am.
I Earned That Fucking Picture
Someone at work told me the picture I submitted was too unprofessional and suggested I replace it with one that’s a fucking decade old. Nope. I don’t look like that woman anymore. I’ve aged, changed, died, survived, learned, led, and earned every fucking stripe on my shoulder. The woman in this picture is the woman you asked for.
The List
Almost a year after the motorcycle crash, I showed Dawna the list of everything that had been broken, torn, punctured, crushed, or otherwise fucked up that night. I expected her to understand what I survived. I wasn't expecting the fucking list to remind me how much of it I'm still carrying.
There’s a Special Place in Hell for Speakerphone People
I was just trying to eat breakfast and write in peace when one asshole decided the entire hotel needed to hear his speakerphone conversation. Then another one joined in. Somewhere between the tinny voices and my rapidly deteriorating sanity, I started wondering about entitlement, social awareness, and why the fuck people do this.
Put Your Back Into the Fucking Plow
Having a hard life doesn't give you a claim on somebody else's success. I've been broke. I've failed. I've trusted people I shouldn't have trusted. But nobody was coming to save me, so I got back up and kept fucking moving.
Someone in My Corner
I thought this week’s lesson was going to be about surviving a new leadership role, monsoon commutes, and a shitty rear tire. Instead, I walked into the garage and found a clean motorcycle—and another reminder that I don’t have to do this fucking life alone anymore.
Cosmic Voicemail
I haven’t written much this week, but that doesn’t mean I’ve stopped. If anything, I’m more convinced than ever that the words matter. I survived cardiac arrests, a motorcycle crash, and enough reminders that tomorrow isn’t fucking promised. So I’m writing like I’m leaving a cosmic voicemail behind.
How Times Change
Five years ago, I walked out of a Santa Fe bar humiliated, furious, and absolutely certain I would never fucking return. Last night, I walked back through the same door with my wife. The place had changed. So had I. Apparently, some promises are worth breaking.
Service Dogs and Weak Chins
I went out for Sunday breakfast intending to work on Undertow. Instead, while waiting for a table, I found myself contemplating two completely unrelated observations about humanity: fake fucking service animals and weak chins. So much for the best-laid plans.
This Is Us
After weeks of turmoil, Dawna is finally here. At three in the fucking morning, with her asleep beside me and our new life beginning to take shape, I realized something wonderfully simple: my heart is full, my world is quiet, and this feels right.
Show the Fuck Up
Writing is as important to my soul as riding. But if I’m serious about making it as a writer, inspiration isn’t enough. Eventually, I have to quit fucking around, open the manuscript, and do the fucking work.