Grades 7 � 10)

(Grades 9 � 12)

(Grades 9 � 12)

(Ages 12-17)

(Ages 13 � 18)

(Ages 12 � 17)

(Grades 9-12)

For those who would like a short, simple soundbyte, my statement is this, something I have heard author Holly Black say often:

Not every book is for every kid, but every kid deserves a book.

(PDF)

(PDF)

 I’m not a villain, or a monster; neither am I temptrix or cuckold. And to be fair, I don’t really care whether Jennifer and Chad stay together for the children or not. Not a single cockle in my heart is warmed when Jason learns Rebecca’s love language is acts of service.

 Listening to couples� petty complaints pays the bills; sometimes it’s even entertaining. It’s remarkable what straight people will put up with. Straight women, really. Straight men have it made.

 They can set antique doll collections on fire, they can imagine themselves in love with the sex workers on OnlyFans, who really only want their dollars. They can sleep with her sister, never change a diaper, play video games all night long, go on long vacations with the boys the same week their wife is due with their first child, buy a boat they can’t afford, hide the keys from her, lie to her, gaslight her for years and still play the victim.

 Their wives will still say, “He’s really wonderful, I love him, our relationship is amazing, except…� and when you insert “except� it’s always something like, he makes fun of me if I don’t wear falsies and wigs during chemo. Somehow, she wants to do cancer better, so he won’t be so offended by her physicality.

 Meanwhile, the husbands say, “My wife gained four pounds after having our fifth child and I don’t want to do her anymore. I can cheat, right?�

 The bar for men is on the fucking ground; the bar for women is invisible from Earth. You need NASA to make that thing out.

 Now, I won’t lie. Sometimes it’s Jennifer and Jennifer or Todd and Todd, and they’re assholes, too. But J&J are going to work their asses off in therapy to try to overcome thumper parents who still send conversion therapy pamphlets in the 10th wedding anniversary cards. If T&T bothered to come to therapy; they’re going to work on it. They’re the types who worked too hard to get here to throw it away.

 Meanwhile, Who Wants to Marry another Desperate Narcissist gives away brides and roses with equal abandon. Queer couples work on it, or they throw a divorce party and get on with it. Straight couples are just never-ending fountains of petty complaints (his) and years of abuse in the name of having a family (hers.)

 If I told you how many women sats in front of me with the bridge troll from Billy Goats Gruff at her side, who should have just ordered a vial or two of Harvard Graduate Six Feet Two Inches Quantum Physics Major from the local sperm bank� you’d  believe me.

 You know these women, these brilliant, successful women with exciting careers and fascinating stories, who suddenly settle down with Farnsworth P. Dickhead long enough to beget two children and initiate divorce proceedings. Ladies, it doesn’t have to be so hard.

 But what I say, instead, is both of you have to give 100%.

 O°ù, a marriage is a marathon; it feels like you were only ready for a sprint.

 O°ù, I’m listening and hearing, but are you?

 She’ll keep on working it, he’ll keep on setting cats on fire in his free time, and yet, I can’t just say, “For god’s sake, cut and run.� Because they don’t keep paying you if you tell them the truth. Nope. They need weekly downloads and exercises and prescribed date nights and intimacy journals and I feel statements instead of You did statements, and processing. Oh my god, they need processing.

 And I charge three hundred dollars an hour, to sit with them, on Zoom, surreptitiously playing solitaire on half my screen. It seems to me like I wanted to help people once upon a time, but one thing I’ve learned since I was bright, and fresh and twenty: you can’t help the unwilling. You can fleece them though, one session at a time.

 People trust me with their marriages; they shouldn’t.

Photo by ors at Morguefile. First line from .

I’m the shadow and the darkness. I’m the sound down the hall that doesn’t quite fit. I’m the door, not quite closed� did you close it? You can’t remember. Is the window locked? It might be� or perhaps not. Not now. 

When you’re afraid of the dark, you’re afraid of me. 

And you should be.

I whisper in dreams: you’re late; you failed, why can’t you run, why is this air so thick? Go on, run. I swirl around your legs, molasses in the dreamscape, never where it belongs. When you sleep with your mother, to chase the bad dreams away� I have whispers for her, too. Restless, sweaty, middle of the night awake and the curtains move� the bathroom so far away, and maybe not even real. Are you awake? You hope so. But you don’t know so.

I know. Because I feed on it, every molecule of fear, every trace of uncertainty. That list in your head that goes on and on, that keeps growing no matter how hard you try to prune it, that’s me. I’m the tree with roots so deep, you’d have to cut out your own heart to stop mine.

Do you remember? Do you remember that thing you said? That thing you did? I remember for you, your face got so hot, your throat tightened like a noose, but only afterwards. Only. Afterwards. The moment you realized just how stupid you sounded, how your voice distorted and broke and you made that face, and maybe spilled a little down your wrist, beads of soda racing to your elbow.

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Hello, friend. Forever friend. You and me, we’re made for each other. No, correction. Made from each other. I’m the only one who knows, who wonders, who crawls into your skin, do your friends really like you? Do they talk about you when you’re off being a small, superficial, broken and unwelcome wart? They probably do. They probably wish you’d go away. 

They probably wish that you were never born.

You wish that, too, sometimes.

That’s me. I’m your monster.

And I promise, even when your mother dies and your cat dies and your brother dies and all your friends have gone on, away, far away, to get away from your taint, you’ll never be alone. We’ll sit here together, you and I. I’ll hold your hand, and press kisses behind your ear, and whisper all my love into you.

Did you lock the door?

Are you sure?

Are you?

Photo by at MorgueFile.

I am beyond honored that my novel, ALL THE THINGS WE DO IN THE DARK, has won the 2020 Indiana Authors Awards for Young Adult Fiction. This is so meaningful to me; this was a book of my soul. It broke me open to write it. It forced me to heal instead of hide. And now it’s out there, for any other person who needs it. This award is an honor, and my book is a love letter to all survivors, everywhere. Just know, you are not alone.

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I apologize, but all of my 2020 appearances will be cancelled and I will not be booking any new appearances until January 2021, at the earliest.