This is the warm side of the fever—my workshop, my chapel of ash, my bench at 11:11th & Black dragged onto the internet and told to speak. I post here when the words won’t behave in a book spine, when the ghosts crowd the doorway and insist we keep the lights on. Accuracy over mercy. Heat over polish. I’m after the truth that stains.
Think of it as a living notebook: field reports from Bend, rain-lit sermons from Portland, stormglass letters from Minneapolis. Memory and myth trade knives here. Some days the writing arrives like a clean blade; most days it’s a handful of flint, struck again and again until a spark admits it was always fire.
What you’ll find
- Dispatches: short, sharp entries—streetlight gospel, bench-side confessions, hauntings named aloud.
- Long reads: braided essays where memoir, dreamwork, and ritual share a table and don’t spill.
- Process + craft: marginalia from The Dangerous Words and whatever comes next—structure, voice, the holy mess of revision.
- Road notes: cities as bruise and altar; maps that look like prayers.
- Artifacts: playlists, marked-up pages, photographs that smell like after-rain and neon.
House rules
No cruelty, no cosplay cynicism. Disagreement is welcome; bad faith isn’t. I write my story and blur what isn’t mine to tell. Names are changed unless permission is joyfully given. Privacy is a vow here—sacred and unbroken.
When posts appear
Irregular, like weather fronts and epiphanies. I follow pressure systems, not calendars. Subscribe if you want the knock at your door when the heat breaks.
Why this space exists
Books are cities. Blogs are alleys where you can hear the sermon closer to the bone. This page is where I test the lock, pry a window, and let in whatever the night is humming about: desire, faith, grief, survival, all their unruly cousins. I write to leave a lantern lit for whoever is walking toward their own unmade name.
If you stay, bring water and matches. Sit as long as you need. Take what burns clean, leave what doesn’t, and meet me at the bench when the rain starts telling the truth again.
In Dust and Ink,
—G.S,