MOTHERSHIP, a collective (ongoing)
MOTHERSHIP is a writing community formed in mid 2013. It was a way for me to keep in touch with my friends from high school, but it quickly became more metaphysical than that. It is the cog in the wheel of our relationship. It keeps us posted to the same place, dedicated to the same beliefs, but working them out in our different ways (with diligence, of course). I post more miscellaneous essays and fiction here, like this essay about my last night at home before going to college.
The And, a magazine (ongoing)
The And is the unofficial literary magazine of New Saint Andrews College, begun in early 2015. It exists only in physical copies, so you won’t find anything from it on the internet or anywhere unless you live in Moscow, Idaho.
A Handful of Quietness, a novel (in progress)
“The first thing that came out of his mouth as he stood in front of us, his hands clutching the edges of the podium, his eyes down at the page, was ‘Is church history the study of the shifting landscape of ideas or of saints’ lives? To give into the study of ideas, I’d argue, is to give into the wheezing threats of a dying objectivism. There is, in the pure lives of holy saints, a kind of clarifying fire that cleanses our notions of history, time, and our own progress through history, not as slaves to movements, but as slaves still to Christ– even to our last breath.’ Dr. Jacobs looked up and Joseph watched a tension release in his face. He had given that before. He pushed his eyeglasses up the bridge of his noise and his lips parted open to blow out a puff of smoke from the invisible cigar dangling from his mouth.”
First Renditions, a short story and essay collection (complete)
“…History has or never will reach the height of satisfaction in hope and ambition as it did in the life of Christ, the historical Jesus of Nazareth. Ovid, instead of becoming immortal through memory, has merely been forgotten. And this is why he is no longer remembered as what he was–a person–but instead, as a personality. He used the fogginess of history, which he well knew as a chronicler of mythology, to obscure the fact that he was no greater than any of us, that his identity was as equally in need of being lost. Borges touches on this idea of person-to-personality in his essay, Valery as Symbol: ‘…the work of both (Whitman and Valery) is less valuable as poetry than it is as the sign of an exemplary poet created by that work.’ So again, we are faced with artists who see their completion and see that it stands taller than them. And rather than making them taller, it has made them smaller…”
Spring: The Cycle is Ending, a novel (complete)
“…They get in their car drive past the park, past the brick middle school, past the housing developments, and they break out and there is cornfields. Lucy watches the lines of green on the brown ground tick by and the trees lining the fields growing buds. The square farmhouses sit behind the bare spotted arms of trees like they are good friends. Abraham does not slow at an intersection because there are no cars around but Lu, she gets nervous and frowns. She says nothing, she’s grown to expect it. Past the cornfields, past the farmhouses, on the outskirts of another town, there is a gate to a cemetery on the top of a hill. The path from the gate goes up to the top, where there looks to be a small memorial or simple boulder. Lu sees it coming towards them, but Abe keeps driving…”