Hey buddies! We wanted to give a quick update regarding our Patreon page. Today we’ve published a newer, streamlined set of Patron Tiers ($5, $10, or $25) for supporting Milestone on a monthly basis. Each tier comes with some cool perks, and we’re working on a few more to add to the bunch. ALSO: you can, of course, make one-time donations of any amount you choose. Just follow the directions you find at the link below.

We’ll have new work for sale right here on the homepage in the next week or so, just in time for the holidays. Be sure to check out our work, our services, and our mission, and remember that every bit of support helps and is deeply appreciated. Onward!


A Novel Experiment: Day Whatever

Current Word Count: 29,575

I believe you should always celebrate successes. I set a personal best with over 3700 words today, and am a climax and epilogue away from finishing this incredibly rough first draft. So we’re dancing, and eating kung pao.

This has been a steady march, consistent mostly in its day-to-day inconsistency, yet still seeing a gentle incline of progress as the days and months have gone by. I have no idea if this thing is any good or not. Frankly, gun to head, I’d have to lean toward “incredibly flawed” at best. But the best part of this novel experiment has proven to be not necessarily the quality of the work that pours out stream-of-consciousness style just begging to be edited, but just the fact that I’ve stuck with the goddamn thing. Again, don’t know if it’ll ever see a shelf on a bookstore, but I really feel like the foundation is being built for something of mine to get there some day, even if it is this gnarly beast of a thing we call fiction.

Find your working relationship with what truly makes you happy. Maximize the pursuits at which you are most suited and talented. Know joy and peace through art. And write about zombie catfish jumping out of the dry earth. It’s what’s working for me.

Toodle-loo, my sweet things, my honeys.

A Novel Experiment: Day 50

Today’s Word Count (actual/goal): 1667/1000

Total Word Count So Far (after edits, all days included, blah-blah): 17,319

I took a mental break from the novel because sometimes a creative project reaches up and grabs you by the asshole and says “This isn’t working let’s see other people” and you have to decide if you’re going to give up or try to work things out in couple’s therapy or a workshop at the Carnegie Center. This happens to me all the time, a lot with paintings, not so much with poetry, definitely any other prose or art project in general. I’m a fragile fucking bird, folks, and so are my works.

The novel was saved by Amanda (as was, of course, most of my life). She gave me the best feedback I could ask for – this is good, keep going. And she laughed at some of the jokes, which at this point in my life is really all I need.

So today’s burst of words in my return to the project is dedicated to Amanda Kelley Corbin, artist extraordinaire, pretty thang, and brilliant co-founder of Milestone.

You need a trusted reader/audience, an Ideal Reader as Stephen King says. I have several, some for certain genres, others for…others. But you need at least one trusted voice, someone who can be supportive and honest. Not your mother or father, even if parental praise can be like crack cocaine, and not your children, and not total strangers either, but people who can at least understand your wavelength or goals.

Find your Ideal Reader, you stupendous peaches.

A Novel Experiment: Day 35


Today’s Word Count (actual/goal): 1010/1000

Total Word Count So Far (after edits, all days included, blah-blah): 15,652

In my last post I wrote the following:

In other news, I’ve been more bananas the last couple of days. I’ll say this: they’re tasty.

Now, obviously there’s a typo. Tasty should say fucking wild. Oh, and I’ve been eating more bananas, although I’m a huge fan of this typo version. This is the fun of editing.

Today’s writing actually went fast and smooth, like a good well-fibered poop, but it was broken into two shifts, like a much more unfortunate poop. A large percentage of today’s writing was a longish sequence of pure dialogue—no attributes or identifiers outside of the spoken words, and between a man, a deer man, a bird man, and a cat who is in fact a cat named Neil. I’m hoping, when I come back to it in the next draft, it still seems like a good idea, and not just the pure laziness oozing out of my every pore that I fear it to be.

Metallica’s S&M2 is kinda rocking the shit out of it for me. Not as balls-out rocking as the first one, but they actually do some different things here. Check out “The Iron Foundry.” Oh, and only Brad Puckett and Nick Woods will get this (maybe Ben Ivan too), but every time I hear “Confusion” from this album

I see

Tata for now, you succulent human bouquets.

A Novel Experiment: Day 29

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Today’s Word Count (actual/goal): 1012/1000

Total Word Count So Far (after edits, all days included, blah-blah): 14,642

Had some good writing the last few days, thank gods, powering through the crazed machinations of my heathen children and utter exhaustion. We’re getting there, buddies. We’re getting there.

So there were protests in Lexington about letting high schoolers play sports this fall, as in Right Fucking Now. You know what I enjoy? Sport. I watch sport, used to play sport, find comfort in sport. In fact, the loss of sport is when I first thought “Oh shit, this virus stuff is serious.” You know what I enjoy more, love more, need more? My children being alive and healthy, dirty heathens that they are. I sure do love them, and I sure do value them far more than high school touchdown records. Fall sports are the most contact heavy, particularly football but also in high school soccer where the fields are smaller than the pros and the players are worse so they don’t spread out as much. The only thing worse would be starting up a fall rugby league or some sort of county or statewide dirty-dance competition. We Americans are such bitches, such spoiled brats who want things our goddamn way and kiss our collective ass, The Greater Good. Gimme all the guns and the cheeseburgers and movie theaters and deep-fried butter sticks at the state fair because we can’t let the virus win and also terrorism.

“Life’s not worth living without some risk, so let my boy play football!” Go fuck yourself.

Last I’ll say about this: look at the protest that was held by parents in the Big Ten conference a week or so ago. What was their main battle cry? “Let us play!” US. Motherfuckers, you aren’t playing! You’re fifty years old with saltwater taffy for knees and big bellies like mine filled with ice cream and sadness! You’re just admitting to living vicariously through your children. Smooth. Borderline child abuse, but smooth.

In other news, I’ve been more bananas the last couple of days. I’ll say this: they’re tasty.

Be good to one other, my friends. Clean Breaths > Quarterback Sacks.