The clock ticks! The calendar pages fly off the wall. The sun rises and sets and rises again. Winter is coming! And the wheel turns.
Which is to say, I’m uncmaxxing in my agemogging era, bruh, ngl.
Which is to more to say, oh shit, I’m 50 years old.
As it is my birthday, I feel it necessary to say, no, no, you don’t need to get me anything — but if you insist, then I note a donation to Authors Against Book Bans or Girls Write Now would not be remiss, and then if you further insist that you want to do something for me, I politely note that the thing you can do for me is a thing you also do for yourself, which is buying my books, or even (gasp) preordering my next book, The Calamities, from my local bookseller or yours. No requirement! But hey, pre-ordering is cool because if you’re like me you’re gonna forget you did it and then the book is one day going to ambush you, except it’s an ambush of bookish joy instead of like, a guy jumping out of the shrubbery with a sock full of 9-volt batteries.
In a general sense, I’m trying very hard to be sanguine about the five decades I have been allowed to exist on this planet. They were a little rough early on but I settled into a pretty good thing, and it’s hard for me to be mad at where I’m at and what I’ve done. Great family, a successful and persisting career doing what I love, a house, a freezer full of ice cream which will probably be the reason I die early because fucking hell, ice cream is really good you guys. And it’s not just where I’ve been or what I’ve done, I also have… more to do, which is also good! I have plans! Plans within plans! Sharks with lasers on their heads, all that. And fine, probably some more books or whatever.
At the same time, you know, my own father died when he was 63 — prostate cancer got him when he took a carefree gap year off his health insurance (this was pre-ACA, and it’s why I believe the ACA would’ve saved his life). So, by that metric, it gives me thirteen more years before I go.
Now, I recognize it doesn’t work like that. I certainly intend to beat his number and keep on kicking well past that point. But he died fairly young and my son never even met him. I didn’t meet my grandfather — either of them, actually — because they both died young. So, yeah, mortality is on my mind there just a little bit.
And the body is keen to remind. I am definitely in my “I hurt myself by sleeping” epoch, now. Things ache. Randomly! They just ache. I have learned the phrase “achilles tendonitis,” a problem I obtained by mostly beating plantar fasciitis, another phrase I had to learn. I beat the one thing and caused the other, I guess? Who knows. Also I think I have arthritis? I might have carpal tunnel? My ear rings all the time? (To be fair, it has been ringing for decades, so that’s not an old guy thing, it’s a “my ear is broken” thing.) I find myself on the lawn, waving my cane at planes, yelling about chemtrails? Okay, maybe not that last part. Yet.
It’s not all bad. I’m still running — not metaphorically, I mean, I literally run (aka jog, aka gallumph sweatily) and last year I really upped my game a good deal. In years previously I ran a 5k every month — last year I was doing one most weeks. So in a lot of ways I’m healthier now than I’ve ever been. It’s just, I can feel the machine breaking down, you know? It’s like a washer or dryer kind of juddering across the floor — it still works! Still gets the clothes clean! But it makes noises now. It’s doing stuff you didn’t tell it to.
I know my doctor is gonna wanna put me on a buncha meds soon — for high blood pressure (which is only high when I go to the doctor’s, weirdly), high cholesterol (my family has had high cholesterol genetically, as we’re pasty Eastern European types, but none of them had heart issues), maybe a GLP, I dunno. Hey, whatever, fuck it, at this point, get me on that statins-beta-blockers-cocktail. I have an upstairs and a downstairs bottle of Advil, so I’ll just take it when I take those.
See, even now I’m doing what old people do — we talk about boring health shit. My wife and I went out to eat about a year ago and they seated us next to a table of The Olds, and their entire two-hour conversation was about serious medical procedures described in graphic detail. Am I that, now? Shit. Shit!
Whatever. It’s fine. I’m gonna keep writing books till my fingers fall off and then I’ll write them with my hand-stumps until they stiffen to a chitinous lump and then I’ll just yell my books into a little mini tape recorder and mail them to you all individually. Gonna keep traveling. Gonna keep eating ice cream with the secret hope it’s actually really good for you and Big Pharma Doesn’t Want You To Know This One Trick Of Eating Ice Cream. Gonna keep living and loving till the living and stops and my loving turns to undead rage, whereupon I will stagger upon the earth, my fierce hunger for human flesh driving me ineluctably forward.
For now, I’m writing the sequel to The Calamities, called Chaos Reigns. I just turned in copy-edits on my next middle grade, The Boy Who Dreamed Of Doors. Then I’m out of contract once again and given that a writing career is a series of cliffs you gotta jump over like Evel Knieval, I best get to building the next ramp before I crash against the rocks in fire and blood. I’m also working on a The Staircase in the Woods film script because, fuck it, why not? There’s maybe some interest in me doing it, so away we go.
We’ll see how it goes.
So, I guess here’s to 50? Onward and upward and all that. One day closer to death. Yadda yadda yadda.
Have you ever wanted to eat stinky tofu while binge watching reruns of the Bionic Woman? Or fall in love with a boy named Pajamas?Have you ever thought there was an alien in your stomach trying to kill you?
Coming out is hard when you have two gay moms. At least it is for Simon Bugg. It’s his senior year, and nothing’s going as planned. When his mom scores a dream job, Simon’s world is turned upside down. Stuck at a new school in a strange town, he spirals, torn between the only friends he’s ever known and a growing circle of freaks and geeks who welcome him in.
Things start to look up for Simon when he meets the handsome PJ in drama class. That is, until he derails their first date in spectacular fashion. With a little help from his friends, Simon finds his way back to PJ. But how can he have a relationship with the boy of his dreams when he’s convinced he’s going to die?
No one knows about the nightly alien attacks at 11:22. Why then, and why are they getting worse? Simon must face a dark secret before he loses his chance with the boy he loves.
1: Stinky tofu is pretty damn tasty…in fact, it’s delicious!
Everyone deserves to see themselves represented in books. So, when I set out to write Somewhere in Nowhere, I made diversity a priority. I wanted my cast of characters to be as colorful and vibrant as the friends I had growing up in Montgomery County, Maryland. This approach opened doors to new experiences as I did research for my characters.
When I first learned about stinky tofu, I was obsessed.
This can’t really be a thing, can it?
Turns out it is.
Okay, but people don’t really eat this, do they?
Yep. They do!
And how bad does it really smell?
Pretty bad!
I had to know more. I investigated its history and the intense fermentation process it goes through to become the odorous, night-market delicacy beloved across Taiwan, Hong Kong, and mainland China. But one thing was missing. I had to try stinky tofu for myself.
It wasn’t easy, but when I found a restaurant with stinky tofu on its menu (East Dumpling House in Rockville, MD if you’re asking), it was steps away from where my protagonist and his merry band of misfit friends go to high school. A stinky match made in heaven.
For the big, taste-testing night, my spouse and I took friends to East Dumpling House. I don’t want to give too much away, because I put it all in the novel, but I’ll tell you my spouse sort of liked it, but it was a gag-worthy moment for our friends. What about me, you’re wondering? I loved it! Every stinking bite. The fun part for all of us, though, was experiencing a new culture and trying foods out of our comfort zone.
I’ve since learned about hairy tofu. Who’s up for the challenge?
2: Sorry, Ripley. The only alien in my stomach is a-n-x-i-e-t-y.
At the risk of sounding clichéd: it’s okay to not be okay. This is a lesson I’ve had to learn more than once in my life, and it was never more poignant than when I was writing Somewhere in Nowhere. I was in the throes of crippling anxiety and panic attacks. I would be up all night. Then, in the morning, I would lay my experiences bare on the page. What Simon was feeling and going through was what I was feeling and going through.
I needed to take my own advice, and I wanted to share this message with readers who may be going through their own mental health struggles. (Spoiler alert: the alien isn’t real.) Simon’s challenge is my challenge. And it may be yours, too. Though his story is fiction, the anxiety and panic Simon experiences is very much my story and my truth. And writing this novel was way cheaper (and did more to help me) than all my years of therapy.
3: Are you there, Hector? It’s me, Simon, and I can’t breathe.
When I set out to write my debut novel, I knew it had to be three things:
a classic LGBTQ+ coming-of-age story
about a boy dealing with mental health challenges
written in the vein of Judy Blume (my favorite childhood author!)
Judy Blume’s books were everything to me as a kid. They were the ones that kept me reading. I learned about the world from her—things my parents didn’t tell me. She also helped me feel not so alone, and she inspires the books I write today. YA that deals with tough, real-life issues. I think this was where the seed was planted for my dark-meets-light writing style. I want my readers to feel all the feels. To laugh, and to cry. That’s real life, after all.
4:How a 20-sided die made me a better storyteller.
The idea for becoming an author came about at the Gaithersburg Book Festival. As I passed The Writer’s Center booth, someone asked if I was a writer. When I said no, they probed further, asking what I did for a living. When I replied, “singer-songwriter,” they said: You’re a writer. It’s in your title. It was a light bulb moment for me.
I thought about that conversation a lot over the next year andwhen the pandemic wiped out my work as a performing songwriter, I decided it was time to sit down to write that novel. But I still wasn’t sure I could do it. After all, I drew cartoons and daydreamed during school. I got Cs and Ds in English class. I loved books my whole life, and escaped into them, but never thought about myself as an author. And I certainly didn’t know how to write a book. Or so I thought.
Then it hit me, I’ve been telling stories for most of my life. Most recently, it’s been through four-minute folk songs, but before that, it was as Dungeon Master for countless Cheeto-dusted D&D games. As a kid, I never wanted to be a playing character, I wanted to create the world and tell the story of the game. This is where I learned about pacing, foreshadowing, and planting clues. Turns out, I’d been preparing for novel writing my whole life. Let’s go!
5: My Jewish family guilt has nothing on your Taiwanese family guilt.
“I swear to God, Mags, you have the nagging skills of a middle-aged Jewish mother.”
“Fine! Make fun of the weird girl! Who just happens to be worried about you! Also, you should know better than to bring up this old feud. You know very well that your Jewish family guilt has nothing on my Taiwanese family guilt. My mother’s guilt, and her mother before her, and her mother before her, and so on and so on, is steeped in a long lineage. It’s basically science. How many times are we going to have this argument?”
I mentioned earlier, representation matters. And own voices in literature are important. That’s why it was clear to me that Simon needed to be gay and Jewish. These are things I know and can write about from an honest place. A place of lived experience. That doesn’t mean Simon and I are the same person, we’re not. But we share a common denominator in lifestyle and experiences. These identities have not always been easy in my life. I had my own struggles coming out as a teenager, and I have never been a religious person. But I discovered in writing this novel that we tend to fall back on our traditions when times get tough. I realized there’s comfort and lessons to learn in accepting these truths about ourselves and our community.
Bonus Thing: Bread and water can so easily be toast and tea.
Sure, you might open a mostly empty refrigerator and see nothing to drink and only stale bread to eat. Or you could brew a cup of delicious tea and make that stale bread all hot and toasty. Mmmm.
Sure, you might lose your work and not know how to pay your bills. But you were also given a gift of time. How will you use it?
Sure, you haven’t slept all night because your anxious mind was trying to kill you. But you can pour this trauma into your art and write about it from an honest place.
So, to sum it all up, the main thing I learned was: put the kettle on, toast the bread, and write your truth.
Steven Gellman is an award-winning songwriter turned author. Inspired by his early love for Judy Blume’s groundbreaking stories, Steven has found his passion for writing coming-of-age fiction that centers LGBTQ+ voices and the real-life challenges of navigating adolescence in an ever-changing world. He has long championed authentic queer storytelling — first through song, now through fiction.
When he’s not writing, Steven can be found sipping a cup of Dark Rose tea and plotting new adventures for his book club, Tea & Peril. Steven lives in Maryland’s Piedmont region with his husband and a houseful of rescued companion animals. Somewhere in Nowhere is his first novel.
Stan Kaminski, a down-on-his-luck Polish immigrant, tries to scratch out an existence in 1990s New York City while avoiding the colorful, nefarious characters he encounters at every turn.
When Stan is asked by one of Manhattan’s wealthiest landlords to find a lost woman, he refuses at first. But money lures him in. As Stan searches for the brilliant but troubled Charmaine, he becomes ensnared in a waking nightmare full of mystery, multiple murders and the sword of a serial killer.
“The Skinny” is about the conflicts that come with change as one New York vanishes and another appears to take its place. It explores the constant struggle between the rich and the poor, how the addicted mind battles itself for answers, the way one mystery is solved only to open the door to another, and what hope actually means.
The evils of Gilles de Rais make their way into the plot of “The Skinny.”
Some years ago I co-authored a book with Dr. Helen Morrison called “My Life Among The Serial Killers.” Dr. Morrison is kind of like the real life Clarice from “Silence of the Lambs,” except she is a doctor and a lawyer. During that book, we wrote psychological profiles of serial killers from the past.
The story of Gilles de Rais, who fought alongside Joan of Arc, had a lasting effect on me. For research, I read a translation of his trial by the Catholic Church. It was tough going, shocking, and because his violence was against children, his misdeeds kept me up at night. Even during the day when I read what de Rais had done, I had to take a break to go to Bar 6 around the corner from my apartment at the time.
He used a short, sharp sword called a braquemard. That antique sword is important to the story I tell in “The Skinny.” There’s a twist regarding the blade that I hope you don’t see coming. I think that’s why Christopher Byrd, who writes for The New Yorker, said “The Skinny is a book about flawed, vulnerable people that is by turns open-hearted and wised-up. Its twists are unexpected, its ending lands just right.”
New York City is full of dead bodies, everywhere.
I’m certainly not the first to say that New York City is a dark character in my book. Stan Kaminski, my flawed sleuth, feels the grit and grossness of 1990s New York with every step he takes. He hates the smell of Macanudo cigars, big with the newly rich at that time in history. He worries that a rat might bite him if he falls asleep on the street while waiting to find Charmaine Kasimierz, a troubled but super-smart young woman who finds late winter in the city too much to take.
In my research, I found New York City to be full of dead bodies. Depending upon whom you ask, there are 10,000 to 20,000 bodies buried under Washington Square Park, and a violent scene in “The Skinny” occurs there, within the fabled Washington Square Park arch. In the 1800s, Corlears Hook Park along the East River was rife with malaria, violence and murder. Even recently, a car plowing through the park on July 4th killed four people. In “The Skinny,” Stan feels like he’ll be murdered in the park, and he has reason to think that way. And a scene in a small Irish cemetery in Queens leads Stan to think about his life in Krakow, and how he once slept on the one of the graves in a Jewish cemetery because he felt he had nowhere else to go, and maybe nothing to live for.
New York City, often beautiful and magnificent in the sunlight, is called the greatest city in the world. But at night, or even on a windswept, rainy afternoon, everything and everyone in New York can feel foreboding, from the rustling of a bird in a bush to footsteps trailing behind you, even if they’re a few steps away.
How video games were an inspiration, like Sam Lake’s Alan Wake series.
Video games can inspire the plots for books. During the day, I write reviews and features about games as a columnist for the New York Times. So the idea of immersion I felt in the better game narratives crept into my story. The dark nature of New York City is partially inspired by Sam Lake’s frightening Alan Wake horror series. While “The Skinny” is not a horror story per se, it has that Sam Lake vibe. Lake himself is inspired by everything David Lynch, so much so that many photos show him drinking coffee, like FBI Agent Dale Cooper in “Twin Peaks.”
From the first paragraph in “The Skinny” onward, I hope readers will feel that Sam Lake/David Lynch vibe. In fact, many of my Instagram posts feature music by Angelo Badalamenti. It’s the right music.
There’s a nod to Grant Theft Auto as well. Later in the book, there’s a frantic car chase that begins across the river from Manhattan in Jersey City. It’s fraught and it’s frantic, and it’s inspired by the minds at Rockstar Games.
I was influenced, too, by L.A. Noire, another game published by Rockstar. When that game was released in 2011, it felt like you were deep in a sometimes grimy, always sunny Los Angeles where everyone seems on the take, from bad cops to horrible politicians.
Another inspiration was Walter Mosley’s vivid “Devil in a Blue Dress” novel, in which every character, even those who exist only on one page, were wonderfully rendered. I mention that here because I hope that memorable piece of print fiction is turned into a game at some point in the future.
Polish Culture is so deep and compelling.
As Stan Kaminski moves through downtown New York City’s underbelly, one constant is Polish culture. This Polish immigrant is on a mission to find Charmaine, a young woman who’s dealt with some very bad people. The horrible sight of a school-age child being attacked by a falcon makes Stan think of folktales and myths that were even more violent than the Grimm Brothers could conceive. But generally, Stan sees things through the lens of all things Polish, like pop music from polkas to Bobby Vinton. He uses the words of his mother country for emphasis. He likes New York, but he wishes he could be in Poland.
The East Village was a bastion for Polish (and Ukrainian) immigrants from the mid-20th century onward until the 1990s. It was a tight knit enclave. By the time Stan begins his sketchy work for a rich Polish landlord, Poles (and Puerto Ricans) were being driven out of Manhattan by the high real estate prices that come with gentrification.
Stan salivates over Polish food like pierogi and sausage at his favorite East Village bar on Avenue A, and he has a soft spot for Bertha, the old, baseball bat wielding woman who runs the bar.
Before arriving in 1990’s New York City, Stan worked security for the Polish movement Solidarity, particularly for Polish union leader Lech Walesa. But he has nightmares about something his wife almost unwittingly did that made him leave Poland, shaken and embarrassed. While Stan’s English isn’t the greatest, he knows his culture well from the greatest authors to the dazzling salt mine sculptures in Wieliczka.
I didn’t think it would be, but going small was the way to go.
“The Skinny” is an immigration story and bigotry is a sad, pervasive fact here. It’s told from the perspective of someone for whom English is a second language. I think you’ll find some beauty in the writing and in the characters you meet.
But two of the bigger publishers wanted me to change Stan, the narrator, so that the occasional Polish word wasn’t used. If I did that, the book would be published in a bigger way. That, in itself, felt prejudiced, at least to me. So I put my draft in a drawer. Eventually, Measure Publishing asked if I had done any fiction. They liked “The Skinny” as it was written. But I polished up the draft a few times before it went to press. I had input on everything from the cover to the kind of paper that would be used to the number of books in the first run. The contract was structured so that royalties are much more than the going rate, and they will come sooner rather than later.
This is the beginning of what I hope will be a trilogy. I like Stan Kaminski as a nuanced character, and I feel there can be more books written through his eyes. But the second book will be told from the perspective of Charmaine Kasimierz – because her real story will be even more compelling than the Charmaine which Stan has so carefully observed.
Harold Goldberg has written for the New York Times, The New York Times Book Review, Vanity Fair, Esquire, Boys’ Life and elsewhere. His narrative history of games is “All Your Base Are Belong to Us (How 50 Years of Videogames Conquered Pop Culture)” Random House, and he co-wrote the bestselling “My Life Among the Serial Killers” (Morrow) with Dr. Helen Morrison. “The Skinny” is his first novel.
*Straightens up and strides onto the stage of Chuck’s Terrible Minds blog.*
*Chuck holds up a sign: “And ACTION!”*
*Nods at Chuckand clears her throat*
Warmest greetings, everybody! Is this mic working? *Taps on mic. Winces at the high-pitched squeal coming from the speakers.* Ack. Right – let’s get this started:
The Pixel Project, a 501(c)3 anti-violence against women nonprofit, is proud to announce that our Read For Pixels campaign has reached its 10th annual International Women’s Day Edition in March 2026.
Read For Pixels has come a long way since September 2014 when Chuck himself, Joe Hill, Sarah J. Maas, and nine other award-winning bestselling SF/F, Horror, and YA authors helped us reach out to their readers and fandoms about violence against women (VAW) and raise funds to keep our anti-VAW work alive. Just over a decade on with almost 300 author livestreams, over 100 AMAs, 23 fundraisers, and 1 Shirley Jackson Award- and Audie Award-nominated charity anthology under our belt, we are continuing to expand our archive of globally accessible resources about VAW for geeks, book lovers, fandoms, parents, teachers, and kids, as well as leveraging the power of genre fiction and storytelling to educate people about VAW. Authors, editors, publishers, and agents have also helped us raise approximately $10,000 per year by providing exclusive goodies as thank-you treats for readers, fans, and book collectors who donate to support our work.
You’re probably thinking: “Sweet! I’ll go scope it out. So why the guest post on Chuck’s blog?”
The short answer: “Because we need your help to reach our $5,000 goal for the 10th annual International Women’s Day Edition of Read For Pixels and keep our work alive in this [insert expletive of your choice] year of 2026.”
Fighting the good fight while grappling with the effects of increased geopolitical turbulence worldwide in 2026 is taking a toll on our organization, as it has with many small grassroots-run nonprofits. Women’s organizations have experienced decades of scarce funding for the overall women’s rights movement and women’s human rights are often one of the first casualties in turbulent times such as these. In fact, UN Women sounded the alarm in summer 2025 that the funding situation is so dire that up to 60% of nonprofits and charities working on women’s rights are at risk of shutting down. Thanks to the War on Iran which has sent global inflation further spiraling, our 10th annual International Women’s Day fundraiser is progressing so slowly even Treebeard can outpace it. It’s been almost a month and we’re stuck at $3,355, which is just 67% of the way to our very modest $5,000 in a single fundraiser so you can imagine our growing concern. While we are 100% volunteer-staffed, we do have bills to pay so that we can keep our campaigns, programs, and services running.
Chuck, who has been a stalwart supporter of our work for years, received our SOS and leaped into action by publishing this blog post to boost the signal for our fundraiser.
So here my team and I are, with Sexual Assault Awareness Month 2026 just around the corner, presenting five fantastic reasons why you should consider giving to our fundraiser to help get us to our $5,000 finish line by our extended deadline of April 15th 2026:
Fantastic Reason to Donate Now #1: Support accessible information for victims and survivors of VAW… while turbo-charging your summer reading
One of the core services that The Pixel Project provides is bridging the information gap that victims and survivors encounter when trying to get help. Our daily helpline retweet session, which posts domestic violence and rape/sexual assault helplines for women in 205 countries worldwide from 8.00PM to midnight Eastern Time, 24/7, 365 days a year, has now transitioned to Bluesky. Additionally, we continue to respond to individuals contacting us for help, doing the research legwork to provide them with information about specific victim assistance services in their part of the world, and incorporating this life-saving information in the books, videos, social media posts and other awareness-raising tools we deploy.
THE WIN-WIN FACTOR: Donate to our fundraiser and stock up your stack of summer 2026 reads at the same time! From signed rare/limited/luxe editions to goodie bundles stuffed with books and swag to single signed titles, we have book-filled treats for every donation level from luminaries such as Carrie Vaughn, Charlaine Harris,Delia Pitts,J.C. Cervantes,Kelsea Yu, Kristy Park Kulski, Libba Bray, Linda D. Addison, Nicole Kurtz, Subterranean Press, and more. And while you’re savoring the satisfaction of ensuring you don’t run out of great stories to fill your summer days, also savor the fact that your donation will support our programs and initiatives that connect victims and survivors of VAW with the help that they need.
Fantastic Reason to Donate Today #2: Support resources for educating folks about VAW… while getting help for your writing
THE WIN-WIN FACTOR: Whether you are a budding writer or experienced author who is considering making a donation, we have a stellar line-up of Read For Pixels author alumni offering critique bundles for WIPs (works-in-progress) and/or 1-to-1 video chats focused on the craft of writing and/or tips about the publishing industry. Participating authors include Dorothy Koomson (Crime/Thriller),Geneve Flynn (Horror),Juliette Wade (Speculative Fiction), Karen Odden (Historical Mystery), and Sarah Tantlinger (Horror and Poetry). Enjoy knowing that while you are getting expert help for your WIP or fixing a seemingly intractable writing challenge, you’re also supporting the creation and expansion of online resources for educating folks around the world about VAW.
Fantastic Reason to Donate Now #3: Support online platforms for people to speak up about VAW… while being immortalised by your favorite author
THE WIN-WIN FACTOR: While your donation keeps our platforms available for folks to speak up about VAW, you can enjoy being immortalised by your favorite author, all in the name of supporting a good cause. For this fundraiser, award-winning authors J.C. Cervantes and Premee Mohamed are each happy to tuckerise you or gift you the honour of naming a minor character in their next book or short story. You can even donate to get it as a unique and lifelong birthday present for a friend or family member!
Fantastic Reason to Donate Today #4: Help us boost the signal for anti-VAW activists and advocates worldwide… while gifting your geeky loved ones with terrific treats
THE WIN-WIN FACTOR: If you have a geeky friend or family member and you see a Read For Pixels goodie offered by their favorite author available on our fundraising page, donate to snag that unique treat (such as Bram Stoker Award-winning Horror poet Linda D. Addison writing an acrostic poem based on your name and acclaimed Fantasy author L.Penelope writing a micro-story for you) and delight them while supporting signal boosts for anti-VAW activists and advocates. BONUS: You’ll have an interesting story to tell them about where the gift came from. It might even be a great opener for chatting with them about VAW.
Fantastic Reason to Donate Today #5: Support the right of women and girls to live a life without violence
So donate to our fundraiser because you believe in supporting efforts to prevent, stop, and end VAW. Whether you can give us $5 or $50 or $500 to help us reach our $5,000 goal (or even zoom past it to a stretch goal), every cent counts.
(And when you donate to us, please also consider donating either cash or supplies to your local women’s shelter or rape crisis center. Like us, they need all the help they can get.)
It’s time to stop violence against women. Together.
Interested in checking out our Read For Pixels fundraiser and making a donation to help keep our work alive? Go here.
Regina Yau is the founder and president of The Pixel Project, a virtual volunteer-led global 501(c)3 nonprofit organization on a mission to raise awareness, funds and volunteer power for the cause to end violence against women at the intersection of social media, new technologies, and popular culture/the Arts. A Rhodes Scholar with a double Masters in Women’s Studies and Chinese Studies, she has a lifelong commitment to fighting for women’s rights. In addition to running The Pixel Project, Regina also teaches English to middle-schoolers and high-schoolers, writes stories about cheeky little fox spirits and terrorist chickens, bakes far too many carb-and-sugar-loaded goodies, and can be found artistically posing upside down in Aerial Yoga class.
a) apple agriculture b) suburban folk horror c) cults
Then boy howdy do I have a book for you — Black River Orchard is just shy of two bucks on your favorite electromagic bookreaderplatformbuyer, which is to say, “wherever you buy your e-books.”
It’s a book I’m quite proud of! So go try it out if you haven’t. Tell everyone. *cue Gary Oldman in The Professional* EVVVVERRRRYOOOONNNNE
Also a reminder that The Staircase in the Woods is out in paperback now, and The Calamities launches in August, and you can preorder at Doylestown Bookshop for a bunch of goodies and unique personalizations where I personally name your DEMONIC PROGENITOR allllll for you, Damien. All for you. I’m working with an artist whose name might rhyme with Matalie Netzger to do some more cool sticker art stuff too.
Oh! And if you haven’t seen the Calamities cover under the cover…
Let’s get this out of the way at the fore of the post: I am not, to my knowledge, actively dying. I do not — again, to my knowledge! — suffer under any particular malady besides the passage of time and the steady nibbles of entropy that will eventually lead to my demise.
But! I am about to turn 50 in *checks watch* just under a month, and that means that I’ve been thinking a lot about death and dying recently, which is to say, the same as usual, probably. It’s not that 50 is old — though when I was a kid, I certainly would’ve believed that a 50 year old was basically a walking mummy, some antediluvian creature who had just slithered up out of the mucky swamps. Now turning 50 just feels normal!
Ha ha just kidding it totally fucking feels old. It shouldn’t! It’s not — not really. But it sometimes literally feels old as I wake up with more creaks and crackles and weird bumps and barnacles and now comes the steady drumbeat of, welp, time to get on statins and/or a blood pressure medication and/or hey have you heard of these GLP-1 drugs and you should be eating less and exercising more and don’t forget to get this cancer screening and that cancer screening and do you have your retirement figured out and where is your grave plot don’t you have a grave plot yet well jesus christ have you at least picked out an urn wait what do you mean you just wanna be swaddled in organic cotton and buried in the yard with an apple tree planted over your carcass so that people can one day eat apples powered by the decay of your inert corpse goddamnit what is wrong with you.
Anyway. It’s fine! It’s fun. New stage of life and all that. I’m wiser and beardier and sexier than ever even if my knees make weird noises.
That’s not precisely the point of this post — which I’ll get to, admittedly after a very long and ambling walk, which I hear old people enjoy! — but rather, in this hastening parade of deathly thinking, I came to a series of small but impactful revelations.
(Small but impactful to me, not necessarily to you. Your mileage may vary.)
So the other day I made waffles for the family, and instead of just using maple syrup, I like to richen the syrup with melted butter, which lets me use less syrup because fat carries flavor quite nicely. (Don’t worry, I’m not eating the waffles, I make eggs for myself like a good little nearly-50-year-old boy. I say this in case my doctor is reading. It’s fine, doc! Really.) Which means part of the process involves melting butter in the microwave, and because I’m weird, I sometimes stand in front of the microwave and watch the butter go from “cube” to “goo” as the, I dunno, nuclear-powered kitchen-box pelts it with lasers or whatever the fuck goes on inside a microwave. Today, while watching the dissolution of the butter chunk, I thought–
That’s death.
I mean, death for the pad of butter, obviously.
But, metaphorically — it’s death for me, to me, as well. For you. For all of us!
If you ever watch the Colbert Questionnaire on his show, that’s one of the questions — what do you think happens to us when we die.
And I think that’s what happens to us.
I think we’re like butter melting.
I suppose it sounds horrible, this bubbly and seemingly final dissolution — but I don’t see it that way at all. Watching the butter go from solid Minecraft block to soft puck to active ooze, I thought, well, the butter hasn’t gone anywhere. It’s simply changed forms. It’s still butter. It lost its shape, but it remains what it was, but now in an interesting new container — an un-container, in a way. And then you’re going to eat the butter and maybe that seems horrible, too, also final, but it’s not. The butter gets spread on toast or poured into the gridwork of waffle sockets and eaten. And still, it remains butter, until it doesn’t — then it gets broken down, absorbed by the eater, used not just to fuel them in terms of energy and nutrition but also to make them happy in some way, because butter tastes delicious. Its constituent parts have come apart, yet remain to serve the body. And eventually that body will take what it can from the butter bits and then get rid of it, or, if they’re over the age of 50, that butter will lodge in their heart in an oleaginous lipo lump fatberg and probably kill them at some point, and then that person — plus the butter they’ve consumed! — will melt, too, a corpse into the corpus, gone to the earth, still a body for a time until it too is consumed and broken apart, all the parts of it used. The one who is fed becomes the one who feeds.
It’s kind of beautiful.
We’re all just melting butter.
But, okay, okay, that doesn’t really account for what is probably the scariest part of death and dying — the existential part. Like, that’s fucking great if all my special boy butter molecules* go back into the universe, but those aren’t me, not ME-me, not the thought-avatar that is me, not the wants and needs and peccadillos and ideas and anxieties that add up to me, it isn’t the memories or the awareness or any of that shit. That all just goes to vapor. All the identity parts of Chuck Wendig are in the bonds of the molecules and aren’t the molecules themselves, and when the molecules separate and the bonds break, so does the Chuck Wendig part of the equation.
Which is why of course we we like to envision an afterlife, right? Sure, the crass body remains behind, stuck in the ground or turned to kitty litter, but the us part, the thought part, all that soul business, it floats up into the sky or sinks down into the chthonic channels. It escapes the hungers of birds and earthworms and flits up to Heaven or oozes into Hell or escapes to some Third Space, like a cosmic Starbucks or an End Times Regal Cinemas.
The afterlife presents us with comfort. The You part, the Me part, the identity part, gets to live on. You know. On a farm. Upstate.
It’s just…
I don’t know if I believe in any of that — okay, I don’t disbelieve in it, sure. If there’s something After, then it’s going to happen regardless of whether I believe in it — if my lack of faith in a particular entity displeases that entity enough that he/she/it doesn’t wanna hang out with me for all eternity, well, so be it, that’s unlife in the big city, baby. If I don’t get get into the post-death VIP section due to some moral quibble, well, I guess that’s on me. I fucked around and once I’m cooked, I find out. Presuming the cosmic order is not subject to such fickle pissery, whatever’s coming is coming whether I know it or not.
What I do believe though is that yes, the process of death and dying breaks down the physical body and leaves a physical legacy — and there is an equivalent breakdown and legacy that happens when the WHO WE ARE slash identity slash soul portion of our existence.
That, too, is left behind as a legacy. Once we’re gone we are left still as a strong impression on those who knew us and loved us, and just as the butter eventually is absorbed into the eater, so too are we absorbed into those we knew, those we affected. And they go away, too, but that doesn’t really mean we’re gone when they’re gone — we leave behind little idea threads, little pieces of ourselves, little jokes and japes and notions, little quirks and questions, and those I think carry on in some form, evolving and devolving as needed. All these pieces of ourselves, living pieces, put out there in the universe, and then cascading out there, fractally, forever. Stones thrown into cosmic ponds.
Ripples going out, hitting the shore at the end of the universe, rippling back.
I love that a lot.
And it makes me think about writing and storytelling.
For a very long time I’ve advocated for just leaving it all out there on the narrative field, so to speak — put it all on the page. Bleed there. Cry there. Crack open your chest and take out your heart and smoosh it into the story like you’re leaving behind a primal signature. I’ve advocated for this in part because it’s practical, good advice — stories are not particularly original, but the thing that’s original about any story is the teller. You’re a confluence of unique elements that has never been repeated, and so part of the value you bring to the page — or really to any creation you make — is the YOU part.
I’ve also advocated for this because, honestly, it’s good for you. It’s good for your heart and soul to be in conversation with it. It’s good for you to find a place for your anxieties and your dreams. It’s good to use all the parts of the pig; the pig being, well, you and your big weird meaty brain. And again: it’s practical! It’s so much easier to use YOU and YOURSELF and ALL YOUR WEIRDNESS instead of, like, trying to get away from all that. You have all these ingredients close at hand — grab them. Use them.
(And this is to me the true value of write what you know, by the way.)
But I see now how that advice, that advocacy, goes beyond just the practical and the narratively-useful and becomes… well, a kind of spiritual advice, really. You’re putting yourself in the work knowing that one day that work is what will be left of you. It will outlive you. It is a legacy. It’s part of the narrative molecules that remain in the universe — not just in physical form, like a book, and not just as 1s and 0s, like in an ebook, but in that anyone who reads that work has taken part of you into them. You’ve affected them. Often subtly, sometimes profoundly. You’re part of their intellectual and emotional flora, same as how someone’s gut has a choir of bacteria that informs them — you’re now singing in their choir, whether as a loud voice or a little one, you’re in there. Your song, your story, is in them. Which meant it’s in the universe. These discordant notes, these beautiful echoes.
And then that’s when I think, this is why you don’t use AI.
First, I know, I know, I’m a broken fucking record with this AI thing, I really am, and I get that it’s probably annoying. (Sorry not sorry too bad.)
Second, I know, there are an unholy host of reasons to not use AI.
But one that hadn’t really hit me was this — your work is part of you and your legacy, but if you let AI touch that, it really isn’t yours. It isn’t you. It’s like stolen existential valor. You just put a You Mask on a mannequin and threw it out of a plane. You’ve done nothing, you’ve contributed nothing, you’ve offered no legacy, your life has cast no shadow. You’ve done no one any favors. Not readers, for sure. Certainly not yourself. That Things You Didn’t Make doesn’t carry you forward. The best it does is carry forward a lie — it carries forward someone else, not you.
Dead echoes. Flat ripples.
A stone that doesn’t skip across the surface of the pond–
It just fucking sinks.
AI is soulless — so don’t let it sub in as your soul.
And when you write, or make art, or do anything, put yourself into it. As wholly as you can. Without reservation. Be unabashedly yourself. Because that’s what goes out into the world. That’s the song you sing. Those are the echoes in this great cave. You’ll live on in others if you allow yourself to.
We’re all just melting butter. Glorious, tasty, melty butter.
Anyway. This is all very silly and probably up its own ass. I just mean, separate from whatever we consider the soul, when we end, the parts of us go out into the universe once more — we get to borrow this mortal shell and ride it around like a robot, and that shell returns to the cosmos in its constituent parts. But also while in this fleshbot encasement we do a lot of things and meet people and make stuff, and that stuff is stuff we also leave behind, and I think all the more reason then when we make art and tell stories to make it as human — and as personal — as we can.
OKAY BYE
p.s. if you want to get me a birthday present, get yourself a present by buying a book — ideally a book by me, because hey, I need to pay this pesky mortgage thing the bank keeps telling me about, but honestly, any book, because books are awesome and do your soul good**
* I promise to never again type the words “boy butter molecules” ever again
