Musings

From Stick Figures to Stardom — Why We All Start Somewhere

young man painting

So I’ve been thinking about this quote lately that’s been bouncing around in my head like a ping-pong ball – “Every artist was first an amateur” by Ralph Waldo Emerson. You know how sometimes a phrase just hits you at the weirdest moment? I was literally standing in line at the coffee shop yesterday, watching the barista create these insane latte art designs, when it clicked.

I mean, think about it. That barista probably started out making coffee that looked like brown soup with foam blobs floating on top. But there she was, crafting these delicate little leaf patterns that made me feel guilty for even drinking them. It got me wondering about all the times I’ve been too scared to try something because I wasn’t immediately good at it.

Remember when you were a kid and you’d grab those chunky crayons and just go wild on paper? The smell of that waxy residue, the scratchy sound against construction paper – pure magic. Nobody told us we were “bad” at art back then. We just created because it felt good. Somewhere along the way, though, we started comparing ourselves to others and suddenly our stick figures seemed embarrassing.

Here’s something that blew my mind recently: Vincent van Gogh didn’t even start painting until he was 27 years old. Twenty-seven! That’s older than some of my friends who think they’re “too late” to learn guitar or try pottery. The guy who gave us “Starry Night” was basically a late bloomer, and look how that turned out.

I’ve got this friend who always said she couldn’t draw to save her life. Like, she’d literally apologize before sketching directions on a napkin. But last year she got fed up with her corporate job and enrolled in an art class on a whim. The first few weeks were rough – I’m talking geometric shapes that looked like they’d been drawn during an earthquake. But something shifted around week four. Her hands started remembering what her brain was telling them to do.

Now her whole social media presence is dedicated to her botanical sketches, and honestly? They’re gorgeous. Not museum-worthy yet, maybe, but there’s something raw and honest about them that makes you stop scrolling. She told me the other day that she can actually smell the pencil shavings from sharpening her drawing tools now — it’s become this weird meditation for her.

The thing is, we live in this instant-everything culture where people expect to be TikTok famous after posting one video. But mastery is messy. It’s about showing up when your work looks terrible and doing it anyway. It’s about the calluses forming on your fingertips from guitar strings, or the paint under your nails that won’t come out no matter how much you scrub.

I read somewhere that it takes about 10,000 hours to truly master something — that’s roughly five years of full-time work! But here’s what they don’t tell you: those first hundred hours are usually the most fun because everything is new and surprising. You’re not worried about being perfect yet; you’re just playing.

So maybe Emerson was onto something bigger than just art. Maybe he was talking about giving ourselves permission to suck at things initially. To embrace that awkward beginner phase where everything feels foreign and your creations look nothing like what you pictured in your head.

What’s stopping you from picking up that paintbrush or learning that language you’ve been thinking about? Start amateur. Stay curious.

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Magical Ride-or-Dies and Why I’d Be Dead Without Mine

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So the other day, I was rereading this queer fantasy book where the main character is this awkward mage who can barely cast a spell without catching his sleeves on fire—and somehow still manages to save the realm. Classic. But you know what really stuck with me this time? His friends. Like, not the hot vampire love interest (though I’m always here for that drama), but the sweet cinnamon roll of a healer who patched him up after every bad decision, the sarcastic rogue who risked her life for him even though she’d never admit it, and the grumpy mentor who said maybe five nice things in the entire book and every one of them made me cry.

It hit me, hard, how often queer fantasy heroes survive not just because they’re “the chosen one,” but because they’ve got people behind them whispering, “You’ve got this,” or in some cases yelling, “For the love of dragons, stop trying to die!”

Supportive friendships in fantasy? They’re everything. Especially when you’re writing or reading stories with queer characters. Because let’s be honest—being queer, whether in a magical kingdom or small-town America, can feel like wandering into a dark forest without a map. There are monsters out there. Some look like literal demons. Others sound like your aunt at Thanksgiving asking if “you’ve met any nice girls yet.” And in both cases, having allies matters.

In queer fantasy, those allies often show up as the ride-or-die best friend, the surprisingly progressive dwarven blacksmith, or the found family of scrappy rebels who don’t care who you love as long as you can hold your own in a tavern brawl. These characters might not be the stars of the story, but they’re the ones who build the safety net. And speaking from experience—having that net in real life? It’s not just comforting. It’s life-changing.

I think one of the reasons these dynamics hit so hard is because queer folks know the value of chosen family better than almost anyone. For many of us, the traditional support system either fell short or straight-up vanished. So we build our own. And when we see those relationships mirrored in fantasy worlds—whether it’s two witches sticking up for each other at coven meetings or an elven archer defending her trans brother against a bigoted king—it’s more than representation. It’s recognition.

And it doesn’t always have to be a heavy, trauma-drenched thing, either. Sometimes it’s just a best friend holding your hand while you come out to the guild. Or casting a glamour spell so you can wear what makes you feel like you without the villagers getting weird. Or throwing a “you survived another heartbreak” party with goblin-made cake. (Please tell me I’m not the only one who needs that last one.)

One of my favorite examples is Jesper and Wylan from Six of Crows. Sure, they’re love interests, but they’re also allies to each other’s traumas, quirks, and past screw-ups. And I’ll never stop shouting about The House in the Cerulean Sea, where literally every character is some form of found family ally and I melted into a little puddle of feelings. Like, give me a sword and a supportive queer sidekick who tells me I’m valid while we storm the necromancer’s tower, and I am set for life.

Anyway, I guess what I’m trying to say is: magic helps, but what really saves us—again and again—is friendship. The real kind. The kind that sees you, holds space for you, and walks through the fire with you. Whether that fire is metaphorical (like dealing with rejection) or actual (dragon attack—oops), knowing someone’s got your back makes all the difference.

So here’s to the allies. The magical ones. The mundane ones. The messy, imperfect, fiercely loyal ones. May we always write them, celebrate them, and be them.

Catch you later, chosen ones. And if you ever need backup on your next quest, emotional or otherwise—I’ve got snacks and sarcasm ready to go.


book cover for Nick's Awakening
Read the book that began it all – Nick’s Awakening

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A liitle update — and a newish book out now

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Whew. So, big news first: I officially shut down my day job. Yep. After nearly two decades of that chapter in my life, I finally slammed the door, locked it, and maybe even set the keys on fire a little bit. I mean…not literally. But yeah, I’m free now—free to dive headfirst into writing like I’ve always wanted to. And let me tell you, the words have been flowing. Like, coffee-pot-left-on-overnight level flowing.

Right now, I’m elbows-deep in my new detective noir series set in 1937, and it stars this sharp, broody, secretly tender gay detective named Lucien Knight. He’s the kind of guy who orders whiskey straight and pretends not to believe in ghosts—until one throws a barstool at his head. The poor guy wants to be a “normal” detective handling “normal” cases but just keeps ending up knee-deep in ghosts. It’s a vibe.

I’ve written the first two books in the series (I know, right??) and a third one’s already fully outlined and itching to be drafted. I’m very much a plotter, not a throw-it-at-the-wall-and-hope-it-sticks kind of writer, so I’ve got every twist and red herring lined up like little literary ducklings. Of course, we’re still in first draft territory, which means the editing phase is coming at me like a freight train. But I’m weirdly excited about that, too. There’s something satisfying about sanding a story down till it shines like a cursed dagger in a smoky back alley.

So yeah, expect to see  a lot more from me going forward. No more juggling jobs and sacrificing sleep to write a paragraph here and there—I’m in this full-time now, and I couldn’t be happier.

And for those of you who missed it, my latest novel, “The Golem’s Guardian” is out now. You can snatch it here, if you’d like. The synopsis is below:

Blurb

David Rosen’s life as a Brooklyn librarian is predictably ordinary—until the night he accidentally brings a tiny clay figure to life. Suddenly, David discovers he possesses an extraordinary gift passed down through generations of his Jewish ancestors: the ability to create golems, magical protectors formed from clay and ancient mysticism.

As David struggles to understand his newfound powers, two unexpected forces enter his life: Jacob, a charismatic social worker who captures David’s heart, and a shadowy sorcerer wreaking supernatural havoc across Brooklyn. When the mysterious villain—known only as the Shadow—threatens everything David holds dear, he must embrace his heritage and master his abilities before it’s too late.

With guidance from a wise rabbi and support from his sister Sarah, David crafts a towering clay guardian powerful enough to protect his community. But every time the golem fights, David pays a physical price. As a rare celestial alignment approaches that will amplify both his power and the Shadow’s, David faces an impossible choice: risk everything to stop the darkness, or protect himself and lose the man he’s grown to love.
In a world where ancient magic meets modern Brooklyn, one reluctant hero discovers that true strength comes not from power, but from the courage to use it wisely.

A liitle update — and a newish book out now Read Post »

Should I Stay or Should I Ghost the Apocalypse?

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So here’s a thing I’ve been mulling over lately—like, while brushing my teeth, walking to the mailbox, and half-listening to podcasts I swear I’m going to finish. It’s this whole tug-of-war between withdrawing and continuing to show up and fight, especially now, when the political climate feels like it’s been microwaved on high for seven years straight and the smell coming out is… not good. You know?

I’ve had days where I’m like, That’s it. I’m outta here. Gonna delete every app, unplug my router, adopt a hedgehog, and disappear into the woods where no one uses the phrase “culture war” unironically. But then five minutes later I’ll see a news headline that feels like it was pulled from a rejected Handmaid’s Tale script and suddenly I’m hate-refreshing Twitter and typing angry emails to my senator. (Who never replies. Rude.)

It’s a weird place to live—this teetering between burnout and fury. Like, on one hand, withdrawing sounds so peaceful. Just cocooning up and pretending the world isn’t actively lit on fire? Tempting. But also… that’s exactly what a lot of folks want people like me to do. (And by “people like me,” I mean anyone who gives a damn about actual rights and not just rebranded control dressed up as “values.”)

There’s this scene in Andor—and yes, I’m about to get Star Wars-serious for a second—where Stellan Skarsgård’s character gives this monologue about sacrificing everything for the rebellion. He’s not shiny like Luke Skywalker. He’s bitter and tired and completely jaded, but he’s still in it. That kind of resignation-fueled resistance? Ugh. It wrecked me. Because that’s what fighting often looks like. Not banners and parades. More like missed sleep, shaky hands, and still deciding to keep going anyway.

And don’t even get me started on The Hunger Games. Katniss didn’t sign up to be the face of the revolution. She wanted to survive. Protect her sister. Maybe plant a garden someday. But the system shoved her into the spotlight, and she did what she had to do, even while unraveling emotionally like the rest of us would’ve. Sometimes courage looks like shooting an arrow at the freaking Capitol. Other times, it looks like not screaming in an interview with Caesar Flickerman.

Now, full disclosure—I do withdraw. I vanish for a bit, nap weird hours, eat toast for dinner. But the thing is, I always come back. I think we have to let ourselves pull back sometimes so we can actually sustain the struggle. We’re not machines. Even Batman had to take a beat and lick his wounds (and probably moisturize, honestly, because that cowl looks drying). Rest isn’t quitting. It’s sharpening your claws before the next round.

At the end of the day, I think it comes down to this: hiding is okay for a while. Recharge, recenter, maybe binge-watch something with emotionally satisfying comeuppance (Looking at you, The Fall of the House of Usher—justice, finally!). But don’t let that retreat turn into permanent exile. The world still needs your voice. Even if it’s wobbly. Even if it only squeaks out a vote or a shared article or one stubborn conversation with That Uncle at Thanksgiving.

Take care of you. Then get back in there and raise a little hell.

Catch you on the barricades (or in my blanket fort for now),
—R

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Small But Mighty — When Size Doesn’t Matter (But Intention Does)

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So I was scrolling through my quote journal the other day (yes, I keep one of those – judge me all you want, it keeps me sane during my existential crises), and I stumbled upon this gem from the Dalai Lama: “If you think you are too small to make a difference, try sleeping with a mosquito.”

I literally snorted my coffee when I re-read this. Like, how perfect is that imagery? We’ve ALL been there – that moment when you’re drifting off to dreamland and then _bzzzzzz_ – that tiny little demon starts circling your ear. And suddenly your peaceful night is DESTROYED by something weighing about 2.5 milligrams. For reference, that’s like 1/1000th the weight of a paperclip.

This got me thinking about impact vs. size in general. I mean, I’m just one person sitting here typing away on my laptop, occasionally pausing to stare out the window and contemplate if I should order takeout again (spoiler: I did). What difference can I really make in this massive world? Climate change, social justice, animal welfare – the problems seem SO enormous, and I’m just… me.

But then I remember the mosquito. That tiny little bug doesn’t have existential doubts about its purpose or impact. It just does its thing, and BOY does it make its presence known.

I had this moment last week at the grocery store. The cashier looked completely beaten down by life, and I just asked how her day was going and actually waited for the answer. We chatted for maybe 45 seconds while she scanned my embarrassing amount of cheese products. Nothing major. But her entire demeanor changed. She stood straighter, smiled a real smile, made eye contact. As I was leaving, she said, “Thanks for seeing me today.”

I’m not trying to humble brag here – I’m just saying that tiny interaction probably meant nothing to me but might have changed her whole day. That’s some mosquito energy right there!

Or take my friend Miguel who started picking up trash on his morning runs. Just one dude, one small trash bag, three times a week. People noticed. Now there’s like 15 people who join him regularly. Their neighborhood looks noticeably better, and the city installed new trash cans along the route. All because one person thought, “I’m gonna be annoying about this one small thing.”

I think we get so caught up in thinking we need to make these HUGE gestures to matter. Like if you’re not donating millions or leading a movement or inventing something revolutionary, why bother? But that’s just not true.

That’s how I’m trying to think about my impact now, more than ever. My tiny contribution matters when combined with others. And sometimes, being that persistent mosquito who just won’t shut up about something important can actually drive change.

I’ve started applying this to my daily life. I speak up in meetings even when my idea seems small. I donate my $10 even when it feels insignificant. I share information about causes I care about even when I worry people might find it annoying. Because you know what? Sometimes being a bit annoying is exactly what’s needed.

The Dalai Lama didn’t say “be exactly like a mosquito and suck blood from people” (though extracting resources from billionaires doesn’t sound terrible lol). He was pointing out that significance isn’t determined by size – it’s determined by persistence, purpose, and being unafraid to make a little noise.

So here’s my challenge to you (and myself): Embrace your inner mosquito this week. Find one small thing you care about and be persistent about it. It might be checking in on a friend, reducing your plastic use, speaking up about something at work, or supporting a local business. Whatever it is, don’t discount it because it seems too small.

Because if there’s one thing a mosquito has never done, it’s doubt its own impact.

Anyway, I’m off to annoy some people about community garden funding at the town council meeting tonight. Buzz buzz, friends!

P.S. What’s your “mosquito cause”? Drop it in the comments! I’d love to hear what tiny differences you’re making that add up to big changes.

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More Vampires, Less Vanilla — Why Representation in Genre Fiction Actually Matters

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Okay, let’s talk about something that gets me ranting with my dog (who does not care, but listens patiently): representation in genre fiction, especially in stuff like urban fantasy and paranormal YA. You know the kind—ghosts, witches, werewolves who look like they could model for GQ, and demons with tragic backstories and great hair.

Now, don’t get me wrong—I love this stuff. I’ve devoured every series where a sarcastic teen gets bitten by something and suddenly has to save the world with magic powers she just found out about, like, yesterday. But there’s this weird trend where so many of these stories still revolve around the same kinds of characters. Usually white. Usually straight. Usually inexplicably hot but somehow completely unaware of it. And I’m like—hello? Have you seen real teenagers? They’re weird and messy and beautifully diverse. So why don’t our stories reflect that?

Let me put it this way: genre fiction is basically imagination unchained, right? You’re already asking readers to buy into magic portals and vampire politics—why not throw in a protagonist who uses a wheelchair and still slays demons like it’s nothing? Or a nonbinary necromancer trying to balance spellwork with algebra homework? It’s not just more interesting—it’s realer. And don’t give me the “but it’s fantasy” excuse. Fantasy is exactly where representation should thrive. If you can believe in talking cats, you can believe in a Black bisexual witch with ADHD who’s the chosen one, thank you very much.

I remember reading Shadowshaper by Daniel José Older and thinking, finally. A Puerto Rican girl from Brooklyn who talks like a real teen and paints murals that wake the spirits of her ancestors? That book had flavor. It smelled like hot pavement and street food and teenage rebellion. Sierra, the main character, wasn’t some blank slate waiting to be filled in—she owned the page. That kind of representation isn’t a trend, it’s a necessity. (Also, read it. It’s awesome.)

Same goes for Labyrinth Lost by Zoraida Córdova. We get Alex, a queer bruja who’s terrified of her own magic. The world is lush and alive and unapologetically Latinx, and it doesn’t stop to explain itself—it invites you in, like you already belong there. That’s the vibe. That’s what we need more of.

Now, let’s talk urban fantasy. This genre is basically supernatural soap opera meets gritty alleyway—and yet so many of the “urban” parts are…not actually urban. Like, where are the queer kids of color from South Chicago who can see ghosts? Where are the Indigenous werewolves in New Mexico who keep ancestral stories alive through shapeshifting? I want to see that. I need to see that.

Not just because I’m hungry for good stories (though I am, always), but because the more kinds of people we see in genre fiction, the more kinds of people we give permission to imagine themselves as heroes. That’s huge. Especially for teens. Imagine being sixteen and seeing someone who looks like you on the cover of a fantasy novel, doing cool magical things and making out with the brooding guy (or girl, or nonbinary sea witch) of their dreams.

And no, it’s not just “pandering.” It’s called reality. Here’s a real fact: A study from the Cooperative Children’s Book Center (CCBC) indicate that approximately only 10% of children’s books published in the U.S. that year featured Black characters (Source: https://ccbc.education.wisc.edu/literature-resources/ccbc-diversity-statistics/books-by-and-or-about-poc-2018/) That’s embarrassing. We can do better. Especially in fantasy, where there are literally no limits except the ones we invent.

You know what’s cooler than a vampire with abs? A vampire with abs and generational trauma and an accent that reflects their real-life immigrant roots. Representation doesn’t take anything away from stories—it makes them richer, weirder, more layered. More…us.

Anyway, that’s my soapbox for today. If you’re writing or reading genre fiction, I hope you start looking for the stories that aren’t being told yet. Or better yet—tell them yourself. Your weird is valid. Your voice is magic. And your werewolf deserves better than another moody white guy in a leather jacket.

Catch you in the spirit realm (I’ll be the one in the glittery combat boots).

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The Strangest Urban Legends from Around the World That Still Haunt Me at 2 AM

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Okay, so you know how you fall down a random internet hole at like 11 p.m. because you’re just going to check one thing (famous last words), and then suddenly you’re reading about haunted vending machines and goat-headed cryptids? Yeah, that happened to me last night. Again. Which brings me to today’s ramble: some of the weirdest, creepiest, and straight-up what-the-heck urban legends from around the world. These are the kind of stories that make you double-check your closet before bed or give side-eye to any antique doll with too much… personality.

Let’s start with Japan, because wow, do they know how to mess with your head. There’s this legend about a thing called the Kuchisake-Onna, or “Slit-Mouthed Woman.” She’s this ghostly woman who wears a surgical mask (which honestly wouldn’t raise many eyebrows these days), and she’ll stop you on the street and ask, “Do you think I’m pretty?” If you say no—bam, she kills you. If you say yes—surprise! She takes off the mask to reveal her mouth has been slit ear to ear, then asks again. Say yes again? She still kills you. Say no? Yup, you guessed it—dead. Moral of the story: maybe just… run?

Meanwhile, over in Iceland, they have the Huldufólk, which literally translates to “hidden people.” These are elf-like beings who supposedly live in rocks and lava fields, and Icelanders take them very seriously. Like, rerouting-road-construction serious. There was a whole thing in 2013 where a highway project got delayed because people believed it would disturb the elves. I kind of love that, though—respect the mystical lava elves or suffer the consequences.

Then there’s the Philippines, home to the Manananggal, which is a shapeshifting, vampire-like creature that looks like a normal person by day, but at night it literally rips its upper torso from its lower half, sprouts wings, and flies around looking for pregnant women to snack on. I’m not making this up. Apparently, the way to defeat her is to find her severed lower half and sprinkle salt or garlic on it, so she can’t reattach and dies when the sun comes up. Note to self: always travel with seasoning.

Oh, and let’s not forget The Black Volga from Eastern Europe. This one’s weirdly modern and very Cold War paranoia-core. In the 60s and 70s, there were all these stories about a sleek black car—sometimes driven by Satanists, sometimes the KGB, sometimes just a straight-up vampire in a nice suit—that would abduct children right off the streets. You can tell this legend came from a time when everything was suspicious and nobody trusted the government or fancy cars. Honestly, I still don’t.

Here’s one that got under my skin in a weirdly specific way: The Bunny Man from Virginia. No, not cute. This guy wears a rabbit costume and chases people with an axe. Why? No idea. There’s a whole backstory involving an escaped mental patient and some dubious asylum history (very urban-legend-y), but the important part is: people still report sightings near a place called Bunny Man Bridge. And like, I want to laugh, but also I definitely don’t want to go there at night. Or during the day. Or ever.

Random fact for you: Did you know that fear of mirrors actually has a name? It’s called spectrophobia, and it’s often linked to legends like Bloody Mary (you say her name three times in a mirror, and she shows up to absolutely ruin your night). I read awhile back that the fear can even stem from the idea that mirrors are portals to another world. Which—yep, totally checks out.

Anyway, there’s something strangely delightful about these stories. They’re spooky, yeah, but they also give you a peek into what different cultures find creepy, and that’s kind of fascinating, right? Like, I’ll take a haunted phone booth over taxes any day. And it’s weird how some legends, no matter how bizarre, manage to survive across decades—or centuries. Maybe we just really like being scared. Or maybe, just maybe… that doll you thrifted actually is watching you.

Sleep tight tonight. And maybe don’t answer any masked women who want to chat about their appearance.


My urban fantasy novel “The Golem’s Guardian” is now OUT! Brooklyn librarian David discovers he can create magical clay protectors—just as a dark sorcerer threatens the city. Ancient magic meets modern love in this LGBTQ+ story! https://books2read.com/u/492ojX

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