Have a Safe and Love-filled Memorial Weekend. Love, C.A. MacConnell
5/29/2022
5/24/2022
5/17/2022
Good Morning.
Good morning. I'm going to take a break from writing on this site while I focus on Book Five. In the meantime...you can find all sorts of my writing samples, if you check out the labels to the right -- everything from Comedy to Short Stories to Photos. Random, but something for everyone!
Also, you can read all about my first four books on my Amazon Author Page right here. They all have a mystery element, they all delve into substance abuse and/or psychological issues (with varying approaches), and they're all intense and fast-paced, but they're quite unique.
GRIFFIN FARM is a first person family drama, highly introspective, and it reads like a memoir, so much so that people have often approached me, asking questions about the characters as if they were my real family, ha! A complement, if you ask me.
THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR is an adventure set in 90s Seattle, full of witty dialogue; it is complex and artsy, told through several voices, both third and first person, as well as varying points of view. It can be funny as all hell, and it can be gritty and dark -- all over the map with emotion. Definitely an escape into another world.
STRANGE SKIN is a straight up mystery, first person young adult with a strong female heroine, and for those who like a coming of age story packed with longing, confusion, and a change of heart, this is for you.
And THE HOLE is a psychological thriller, also jam packed with real, dynamic dialogue; it's told through three different voices -- all first person. With that one, I really wanted to get deep inside each main character's mind. And indeed, I went deep. While writing, I often scared myself. I must say, it was chilling at times. I had to take a lot of breaks, ha. It was as if I lived inside a Dateline episode for a few years, and it had quite an effect.
I love to play around with voice and dialogue, hell yeah. I suppose I became the most adventurous with it in THE HOUSE OF ANCHOR. But I feel that with each one, my approach shifts and changes as I edit...and as I get to know the characters and storyline.
All of them would make great films, in my opinion. In college, I focused heavily on film; I actually minored in film, and I studied all of the greats. One can surely see this influence bleed out in the writing. It's incredibly visual, and the dialogue is spot-on and real, both humorous and gritty at times, as real life can indeed be.
Hope you check out my fiction. Or delve into some of my essays, poems, or stories on here.
I intend to go skydiving soon. I may just go by myself. I do everything alone -- movies, walks, concerts, you name it. Last year, I went to Kings Island alone. It was hilarious. I got the blue ice cream, rode all the coasters, did everything a person would normally do. It didn't seem strange at all. Although, I have heard that Drop Zone got stuck at the top recently! Oh man, that's the scariest ride ever, and it's my favorite. But holy shit, I wouldn't want to get stuck dangling there. That's one adventure I'd like to miss, just saying.
Only person I walk with regularly is my friend Liz. I've known her my whole life, and she's one incredible woman. We talk about everything from politics to sex, and everything in between. I'm never sure where the convo might end up, ha. We could start off talking about Catholic priests, move on to our neighbors, and end up on a rant about her plantar fasciitis. Love those kinda friends. Hard to find, aye.
Hope you have a lovely day. I'm gonna settle down and get to work.
Love,
C.A. MacConnell
5/15/2022
Three White Chevys.
Hey there. Some flash poetry for ya. Unedited. Just getting my brain in gear. :)
Three White Chevys
Three white Chevys in the graveyard.
Ignore the sore
throat. Somewhere, west, I imagine
the thick, terry cloth, his tightly
tucked towel.
Next, I see him raise each brow,
wide-eyed, wildly
brushing his teeth
in perfect circles.
Then I hear him say
fuck it and light up.
Before noon, he too furiously
curses his mirror, the whole shape.
Three white Chevys leaving
soon. Ignore the sore neck. In a crowd,
he rarely turns,
his tight tuxedo
holding him back.
Or perhaps, deeper, between the discs,
the thin cartilage is worn to shreds,
like mean linen, like wax
paper.
Antique motor -- my bones grind
away, inside out.
I hear the coming
of age, knotted ever
so carefully, wrapped
in pure, somber, reflective
static.
Then I hurry home alone, find the last
of the paste, brush in perfect circles,
then say fuck it and light
up.
C.A. MacConnell
5/09/2022
5/07/2022
Nature's Schoolteacher
I believe that with horses, when you approach them for the first time, there exists an extraordinary moment, and in that first moment, when you draw near to the animal and perhaps look into the penetrating eye, breathe close to or inside the nose, stand beside the chest, or ride him for the first time, in that remarkable instant, I believe that the horse has the ability to see and feel some or all of your past experiences through flashes of images, scents, and dream-like visions, and if the horse wishes to open up completely, he can sense your entire history as it stands up until the present, and it strikes him with a force; he is suddenly aware of your (and any human's) entire nature -- even the biggest joys and deepest pains -- and the horse knows, right away, on a level man cannot comprehend, what it is that makes you who you are, and drawing from what he knows, the horse reacts accordingly, responding to these senses and visions, whether it be in a positive or negative light, and the crucial, initial moment of connection determines the course of the relationship forever, meaning the dynamic of the bond, and the entire relationship remains the same unless horse or rider (or both), suddenly and strangely shift, opening up to the idea of humility and overall, when both surrender, learn, and let go, there is a partnership of true understanding that is difficult to duplicate.
Each creature is nature's schoolteacher for humankind. And herein enters the idea of the soul mate, a notion already present all around us, buried within the wild.
C.A. MacConnell
Each creature is nature's schoolteacher for humankind. And herein enters the idea of the soul mate, a notion already present all around us, buried within the wild.
C.A. MacConnell
5/06/2022
Baby on Board
I was going about 40 mph.
I know because I looked for once.
The speed limit was 30.
I glanced up at the car in front of me -- a black, sporty Mazda that was as shiny as a spoon, if the spoon were black, and the Mazda Man had one of those yellow, CAUTION, signs suction-stuck to the back window that read this: "BABY ON BOARD." So, as one would, I kept my distance, obviously concerned about rear-ending that baby.
Well, we crept up to the next light, and as soon as that fucker changed to green, Mazda Man tore down the street like Evel Knievel, peeling out and all. He had to be going about 60 on the twisty-turny back road that it was, and I was shocked, because by then I was going 45, and it was a struggle for me to make the turns, and Mazda Man left me behind like I was some bad habit he had chucked for good.
Which brought me to these questions: Was the baby driving? Or was Mazda Man teaching his baby to drive like a madman? Did Mazda Man want his baby to become a cop? Or a criminal? Was the baby even in the car? If the baby wasn't in the car, why was the CAUTION sign still up there? I guess he wanted all of us to be careful and watch out for him, but he sure as hell wasn't watching out for anyone else.
Good luck drivers. Be safe. There are babies out there.
C.A. MacConnell
I know because I looked for once.
The speed limit was 30.
I glanced up at the car in front of me -- a black, sporty Mazda that was as shiny as a spoon, if the spoon were black, and the Mazda Man had one of those yellow, CAUTION, signs suction-stuck to the back window that read this: "BABY ON BOARD." So, as one would, I kept my distance, obviously concerned about rear-ending that baby.
Well, we crept up to the next light, and as soon as that fucker changed to green, Mazda Man tore down the street like Evel Knievel, peeling out and all. He had to be going about 60 on the twisty-turny back road that it was, and I was shocked, because by then I was going 45, and it was a struggle for me to make the turns, and Mazda Man left me behind like I was some bad habit he had chucked for good.
Which brought me to these questions: Was the baby driving? Or was Mazda Man teaching his baby to drive like a madman? Did Mazda Man want his baby to become a cop? Or a criminal? Was the baby even in the car? If the baby wasn't in the car, why was the CAUTION sign still up there? I guess he wanted all of us to be careful and watch out for him, but he sure as hell wasn't watching out for anyone else.
Good luck drivers. Be safe. There are babies out there.
C.A. MacConnell
5/03/2022
Choosing Peace
I wrote this a while ago, but it still applies. :) Sharing some essays lately, editing here and there. But don't forget to check out my books! They're other monsters altogether, ha. :) Go here. Just drinking some coffee. I actually don't drink coffee much at all, but when I do, I make a poor man's mocha w/ Mr. Coffee, Seattle's Best, and choco powder, even though I've worked as a barista AND roasted beans in numerous high end coffee locales, even one in Seattle. Pretty funny -- I've never changed my routine. Always drip coffee, an occasional Americano when I'm feeling adventurous. And then I'm gonna head out to get a new tire. Yesterday, I drove on the donut to get two MRIs, lol. A new low. Ah, such is life. I feel good, though, other than those issues ... just being proactive. Seems to be manageable w/ home-created PT at the moment. :) We'll see. Anyway, here's the essay.
Choosing Peace
A while back, I was driving through the side streets in a shifty part of town. It was pitch black in those alleys, and when I looked out into the night, I saw a lone, dark shape smack in the center of the road. I squinted, hit my brakes, and looked closer. The shape was distorted, as if there were too many arms. I looked closer. Crutches.
Then I saw that she wasn’t an adult woman at all. She was a girl around thirteen years old, and she only had one leg. The right one. There she was, wandering around in the dark, hobbling on her crutches, and from the hip down, on the left side, there was nothing but air. Alone, she slowly made her way down that dark street. For a moment, she stopped, looked through my windshield, and stared at me. Hard. Strong. Not a twitch, a flinch, or a break in her look. And then she turned, making her way forward into the shadows.
As I drove on, I thought about the tough look on her face, and I wondered what had happened to her -- how and when she lost that leg. Then I thought about what it might be like to be her -- a young teen making her way through the world with a disability that was so fiercely apparent. Of course, I could never really know what it would be like to be her. I could never truly understand the exact challenges she would face in the neighborhood, at school, and in her entire world, inside and out.
And then I thought about her strong countenance, her steel-sharp look, and the way that she moved forward in spite of her disability, trooping through the dark streets despite the danger all about her. No, I could never fully understand the way that she would feel, but I felt a raging connection to her. I couldn’t shake the vision of her. It touched me. It stuck with me.
Today, thinking of her, I'm reminded to pick and choose my battles.
Over the years, at times, when I saw injustice directed toward those with disabilities, I stood up, spoke out, spoke up, or wrote about it, although it took a great deal of strength, and it was often draining and incredibly difficult; sometimes it affected me for years after. Indeed, right here, right now, as I write to you, I'm remembering the aftermath of some of the comments -- the stress, stigma, panic, judgment, and the like. And then I remember the other comments -- the letters, emails, thank yous, the ones that made it all worth it.
Other times, I let go, or "let things slide," as I like to say, and I trudge forward in spite of the darkness that may be around me, like her. I can share my story and help when it feels heart-right, but at other times, I can hold it close. Indeed, it is hard to find that balance, but through experience, I have certainly gathered a lot of knowledge over the years. Lately, I've been focusing on my own journey; I've decided that the best way to fight is to live my life to the fullest, to be an example of truth and strength, in the best way that I know how. Flawed at times, sure, but I'm giving it my best shot.
So let me be strong in the darkest of alleys and speak up when it’s right and true, when the moment calls for it, but also, let me be aware of the times when I need to allow myself to settle into peace, and let me embrace the wisdom to know the difference. That little girl reminded me that whether I'm fighting strong or listening and meditating, I can choose to be true to myself, and I can choose peace.
C.A. MacConnell
Choosing Peace
A while back, I was driving through the side streets in a shifty part of town. It was pitch black in those alleys, and when I looked out into the night, I saw a lone, dark shape smack in the center of the road. I squinted, hit my brakes, and looked closer. The shape was distorted, as if there were too many arms. I looked closer. Crutches.
Then I saw that she wasn’t an adult woman at all. She was a girl around thirteen years old, and she only had one leg. The right one. There she was, wandering around in the dark, hobbling on her crutches, and from the hip down, on the left side, there was nothing but air. Alone, she slowly made her way down that dark street. For a moment, she stopped, looked through my windshield, and stared at me. Hard. Strong. Not a twitch, a flinch, or a break in her look. And then she turned, making her way forward into the shadows.
As I drove on, I thought about the tough look on her face, and I wondered what had happened to her -- how and when she lost that leg. Then I thought about what it might be like to be her -- a young teen making her way through the world with a disability that was so fiercely apparent. Of course, I could never really know what it would be like to be her. I could never truly understand the exact challenges she would face in the neighborhood, at school, and in her entire world, inside and out.
And then I thought about her strong countenance, her steel-sharp look, and the way that she moved forward in spite of her disability, trooping through the dark streets despite the danger all about her. No, I could never fully understand the way that she would feel, but I felt a raging connection to her. I couldn’t shake the vision of her. It touched me. It stuck with me.
Today, thinking of her, I'm reminded to pick and choose my battles.
Over the years, at times, when I saw injustice directed toward those with disabilities, I stood up, spoke out, spoke up, or wrote about it, although it took a great deal of strength, and it was often draining and incredibly difficult; sometimes it affected me for years after. Indeed, right here, right now, as I write to you, I'm remembering the aftermath of some of the comments -- the stress, stigma, panic, judgment, and the like. And then I remember the other comments -- the letters, emails, thank yous, the ones that made it all worth it.
Other times, I let go, or "let things slide," as I like to say, and I trudge forward in spite of the darkness that may be around me, like her. I can share my story and help when it feels heart-right, but at other times, I can hold it close. Indeed, it is hard to find that balance, but through experience, I have certainly gathered a lot of knowledge over the years. Lately, I've been focusing on my own journey; I've decided that the best way to fight is to live my life to the fullest, to be an example of truth and strength, in the best way that I know how. Flawed at times, sure, but I'm giving it my best shot.
So let me be strong in the darkest of alleys and speak up when it’s right and true, when the moment calls for it, but also, let me be aware of the times when I need to allow myself to settle into peace, and let me embrace the wisdom to know the difference. That little girl reminded me that whether I'm fighting strong or listening and meditating, I can choose to be true to myself, and I can choose peace.
C.A. MacConnell
