I was always told I was a good writer.

Not great, not fantastic. Good.

When I was 11 years old and wrote a short story based on my favorite video game?

It was good.

When I was a teenager and slapped together a “novel” with an audience of one single-mom?

It was good.

I’m not sure where that didn’t become enough, but somewhere in college – while I was studying to fucking write – I just up and quit. No reasons beyond ego, fear and stupidity. At least I thought that was the case.

As I’ve written more and have actually found a niche, I’ve found something common among writers; a need for validation. We all have egos, and we want them stroked. Pretty simple stuff. At the same time, there’s really not much accomplished when your significant other reads a piece you put together and tells you, “This is good.”

That isn’t good enough.

Neither is “fantastic”, “great”, or “excellent”. No, I’ve found I want something else. I want to hear four simple words: “I liked your story.”

My story, put out there to be read by anyone of their own free will.

It speaks volumes, fucking encyclopedias even, and not because this is a judgement of quality – fuck that – the point is that someone read my writing. THAT is what I’m hungry for. THAT is what I’ll break my ass revision after revision for. The kicker? It’s happening. Sure, in trickles – in a slow, steady crawl – but it’s happening.

Anyway, just some random thoughts for the night.

Back to whisky and writing.

Be easy,




So today a pack of psychos are going to take a chance and run 26.2 miles on the Boardwalk of Virginia beach. I should have been there with them, ready to go for my third marathon, but I’m here writing, researching and ruminating.

I’m not mad at myself. This winter was a beast and my new commute threw my entire routine into a whack-a-doo spiral. It was tough to gauge priorities, but I opted to set the running to the side and focus on family, work and writing.

I don’t regret that. I’ve got three pieces accepted to journals I’ve had in my sights for a while, have been enjoying my new job and have had a few wonderful times with the family that I may have missed out on if I was over-stressing about running an extra five miles.

Sometimes it works to take a step back and get a little perspective.

Does that mean I’m not going to run another marathon?

Fuck no. I’ll be signing up for the Steamtown Marathon in Scranton, PA this Fall. Come June, I’ll be training and working on the second revision of my novel. The extra daylight should let me not worry so much about

I read somewhere that opportunity always shows up disguised as hard work. Guess I better get back to busting my ass.

Be easy,

– Angel

Beer Ramble Two – 75 Minute Boogaloo



Damn it, I’m already married and this isn’t Utah.

Anyway, I’ve said it before; I’m no “expert” in reviewing beer. I can’t tell you about odors or mouth feel or whatever. What I CAN say is this is a nearly flawless marriage of Dogfish Head’s 60 and 90 Minute IPAs (if you’ve never had, go drive and find some) with a nice, warm, maple finish.

Astounding. I would drink buckets of this if it weren’t for cirrhosis.



Beer Ramble Numero Uno

I’m supposed to be writing more of my novella tonight.

This means I’m going to waste time and talk about beer.

This beer, actually:


Schlafly AIPA. I’m not very well versed in reviewing beer, so I’m not going to follow any protocol and just give my overall impression.

Again, this is to procrastinate, so it means NOTHING.

Anyway, this is a solid little American IPA. Not too hoppy on the finish, but interestingly enough has a really nice floral hit at the back of the tongue that was at first not too wonderful, but over time, it started to work for me.

I’d recommend this beer as a burger or beer companion. You can sip it slow and just enjoy.

Arbitrary numerical rating? Six out of Eleventeen.

Go drink beer.