the goddess of unfinished stories

A recent social media meme asked me “If you could be a goddess or a god, what would you be the patron deity of?”

My first thought was ‘semi-colons’ because my brain doesn’t work well under pressure. Still, I supposed semi-colons are better than colons, considering that at some point someone is going to misunderstand that title and the colon gods will be elbow deep in proctology.

2018-08-16 15.18.22.png
meme credit to Mr. P’s Mythopedia on the book of face

Then I thought about it a little more and decided I’d like to be the goddess of unfinished stories. I don’t think there is a current goddess of unfinished stories and just think of how handy I could be. Instead of letting unfinished stories rot in a notebook, characters frozen in whatever terrible situation you’ve put them in, you could call on me. Deadline looming and not sure how to end your story? I’m your goddess.

I’m not comfortable with prayer (my mind-reading skills are terrible), but feel free to text or email.

Writers could leave offerings of freshly ground dark roast coffee, Sharpie pens (fine), the occasional smudge stick. For big messes maybe some HP75XL printer ink (cough cough  George R. R. Martin). In return I’d help them finish their stories.

The upside will be all the books dedicated to me and my mentions in acknowledgement pages at the end of books. Do you ever read those? They’re strangely dull considering the authors are… well, published. When I become the goddess of unfinished stories, that is going to change. The acknowledgements will be epic, full of entertaining doodads and hilarious anecdotes. They will become the book version of end-of-credits sequences on beloved films. The true fans will adore them and hipsters will covet them.

All in all, I’m not sure we as writers can afford to not make me the goddess of unfinished stories, except for this whole mortal thing I have happening. If anyone has any suggestions or hacks for becoming a goddess, please pass them along so we can get this thing started.

Happy writing!


gestation period


The tree appeared to be as pregnant as she. The woman reached out and traced the cracks of its bark with her finger. They felt like the cracks in her composure.

The tree listed a little in the wind. She touched her belly, then the tree’s, half-expecting to feel a kick and see a shadow of movement on the bark.

In a few months, she would have a baby in her arms. She wondered what the tree would have.

a hornets’ nest of questions


“They say that if hornets build their nest high, the snow will be high the coming winter,” said the man.

“How do you suppose the hornets know? Do they visit a fortune-teller?” asked his son.

“Does the snow fairy give them inside information?” asked his daughter. “That doesn’t seem fair.”

“Are they time-travelers?” asked his son’s friend.

“Is it possible unicorns use their horns to pierce hornets’ nests so they can protect children?” asked his daughter’s friend. “It might explain why they’re called horn-ets.”

The man stared at the nest and gave his head a small shake. He should have known better than to start a conversation with this group.

forget me not


The edge of the forest was blue with forget-me-nots. With each passing year there were more of them. She often wondered, as she wandered past, if some lonely spirit sat among them, hoping for some long-lost friend to think of them as they went by. She smiled, just in case, and stopped to linger in the blooms.