Mumbai at Sunset


Mumbai, from inside a car, is small roads with old, peeling buildings making up the sides. Long roads with tin houses and tarp roofs, with the smell of curry and chicken shit. It is colorful, the pink bougainvilleas (a words stretched out as far as it can go to somehow encompass the flowered tree) lighting up the green and drab brown of the dusty road. Green is a certain color here, not vigorous vitality, but life. It is everywhere, it covers our city tops, plastering the walls alongside the mosaics of torn, faded posters. It’s as though nothing is torn down, just covered up. The buildings are endless and old, with grail covered windows and dark water-stained walls the color of caramel. The buildings are like a fallen tree in a forest.

The car putters down the uneven roads filled with people living in an equally uneven, ramshackle way that shows in packed bumpers, revved engines, and constant beeping. A father stands in the second story of his small, dilapidated home, back-lit as he holds his child on his hip and looks out at the great hungama before him. Dusk makes only their outline visible as he looks at his child, then kisses it on the cheek, hard, and then rapidly again as though bursting with love on this afternoon at the end of an Indian summer day.


November is ending. While this brings me closer to VACATION and FUN, it also brings me to the end of NaNoWriMo…. My grand total of words is so grand, I am not repeating it on here. In my honest defense;




(imagine that word coming from a five year old as she slumps forward on the desk, whining)

Churning out meaningful words that might be 100% shit for hours every day is haaarddddd.

 But that’s the life of a writer. That’s the career path I’ve chosen. If I can call myself a writer, I need to write consistently every day 365 days a year. Not 30 days, not even 10 days of panicked 5,000 words a day.

While NaNoWriMo will officially be over when this month ends, that doesn’t mean the noveling (yes Google, I know it’s not a word. It should be) will end.

November is a base. It’s a launch pad for becoming the writer you want to be, you need to be to make it in this haaaaaarrrrrdddd field.

Now go forth! WRITE HAAARRDDD!!!


run plock



Plock stared at the floating words, his antennae moving furiously. The human civilization was soon to discover the internet; he had to warn them. No race was safe.



His sucker moved to click “send”, but there was a SCHLOOP.

He was gone, the cursor blinking in the air.



(dedicated to Nick)

The crisp blue air smothered her lungs.

The first warning bell rang through the quad and the students trampled over the grass, a constant, moving, chattering mass.

Crushed grass smelled like a tangy November. Blue, red, and vintage rag-cloth bags hung off backs like so many ladybug shells as they disappeared into classrooms.

The girl sat alone on the grass, still un-moving, her eyes glazed open. Her crawling black hair suckered into the tree, where she slumped like a broken doll.

The red paint dots on her glossy, dark skin seemed jarring. They traipsed over her lips, under her chin, down her throat, disappearing under her scarf. The headphones fitted over her ears shuddered with music. She couldn’t hear “Rise Against” anymore; something else resounded through her and the ground.

She could hear the






“Come on, Ms. Khaliq.”

Mrs. Nguyen removed  headphones, shaking her. Aaliyah blinked, looking down at her hands as Mrs. Nguyen started berating her. The world seemed very solid under her knees.

Aaliyah shook her head, standing and snatching up her bag.

“Sorry Mrs. Nguyen. I just.. spazzed.”

I See You’ve Put Your Pen Down…

Because it’s hard. Because you’re busy. Because the words don’t come to you, because you’ll never be good enough, because you’re a worthless, hopeless, loser.

I want you to pick it up again, physically or mentally. Pick up the pen, Right Now.

You don’t have to write. Just hold it in your hand and feel it for a second. Remember what it was that got you hooked on writing, that made you want to write more. Remember the rush.

Now feel the fire start in your belly. Feel the burning behind your eyes, feel the full force of your emotions. The beating of your heart, the clenching of your soul. The tightening of your fist as your dreams weigh down on you.

You want to write.

Don’t you dare put that pen back down. You are a fighter. The words come to you through a haze of pain, they bleed from your fingertips and scratch across your brain. Is it worth it? Are your dreams worth this?


If you want to be good at this – if you want to make words dance for you, jump across the page and set themselves on fire for you, you’ve got to pay them in blood and tears and sweat.

You’ve got to sit down and write.

And you will.

So, recently I’ve become a writer over at The Writing Corp. Check out the original post HERE, and be sure to check out the other awesome posts there!

The 3 Minute Game

the 3 minute game

This is a game I play every time I want to get something over with, something that I’ve been procrastinating on for a while since I reeeeeeeeeallly really really don’t want to do it. It is called the 3 Minute Game.

Sound simple? It is. Choose one thing that doesn’t require thought – chores, like the dishes and cleaning up work best. Then decide to do it ALL – EVERYTHING – in THREE MINUTES.

That’s it. You can only have THREE MINUTES.

It’s a race. You have to be as quick as you possibly can. You have to hang those clothes and wash those dishes and unload that dishwasher at Super Sonic Speed! You are a rocket, a comet, the bomb is going to explode and YOUR ROOM SHOULD BE CLEAN BY THE TIME IT DOES!


At the end of your three minutes, I guarantee, if you were racing your butt off, you will have accomplished more than you thought you would’ve in simply three minutes. Not finished vacuuming the living room? Set the timer again. Add another task to even things out, if you want to get crazier.  And




“The 5 Sins of Storytelling” – FREEBIE

Story writing can be easy!

“The 5 Sins of Storytelling” is a free excerpt from Laurie Alberts book, “Showing and Telling”. You can get it here.

I am ashamed. My stories are a perfect example of the 5th sin – Sentimental Scenes.

No shit…

He lay his hand on her head, brushing her brown locks back. The retriever leaned into his hand.


Her eyes closed, and her body relaxed into the cushion. He continued petting her until she was cold.

She was buried in the backyard, under the sycamore tree.



Don’t worry.

We’ll work hard.

We’ll *sob* get better at it.