words are spells.

mollylaich.com, both the website and the girl, need a little alone time. we’re expecting a full recovery in 2013. (maybe even before; I might want to tell you what movies I hated this year. I know. season your admiration.)

Meanwhile, I love self help/hippy spiritual books, and I’ve been reading one in particular called The Four Agreements, by Don Miguel Luiz. Just do what he says and you’ll be happy, okay? The four agreements are:

  1. Be impeccable with your word.
  2. Don’t take anything personally.
  3. Don’t make assumptions.
  4. Always do your best.

Here’s a succinct explanation of number four, from toltecspirit.com:

Your best is going to change from moment to moment; it will be different when you are healthy as opposed to sick. Under any circumstance, simply do your best, and you will avoid self-judgment, self-abuse, and regret.

Here’s a passage from an as yet unpublished story I wrote back in 2010 called “Get Well Soon.”

The nurse wrote a recommendation for her to see the psychopharmacologist across the hall, where they would do their best to help her. He thought about how that’s all anyone can ever do: their best. He thought about it the whole way home, driving in his car: “We want to do our best.” It’s not enough to want to do your best. You have to know what that means, and the definition always changes. Your best might not be someone else’s, and so on. He didn’t think it was likely that Emma would get better.

Eh. I was startled at first, but maybe it’s not actually that similar. I’ve just always felt that when I’m writing—when I’ve caught a current and I feel like I’m really nailing down what I want to say—it’s not coming from me. It’s coming from the little boy who lives inside my mouth! i.e. the netherworld. You’ve written about things and then watched them come true, right?

Mostly I just wanted to say hello and please don’t forget about me. Here’s the second part of that paragraph. And do let me know if anyone is looking for an 8,000 word story about pain.

Some people just have a sunken in look to them, and they will always talk to you from that void. The nurse came home to an empty apartment and made sloppy Joes for himself and his neighbor, who wasn’t home and didn’t want one. He went to bed and had the same reoccurring dream, the one in the meadow with his favorite food: pancakes, drenched in syrup and stacked to the heavens.

I love you. Merry christmas.


look, I read something.

Lots rolling around in the old noggin but what else is new. A friend of mine who I’ve never met from the Internet sent me three books in the mail. I have a few creepers about, but in this case there’s no agenda; dude was just being nice. What a blast to get a secret special package in the mail. They weren’t even used books! I saw the receipt.

Quick digression: The relationships I make with people on the Internet are the realest. Shut the fuck up about technology isolating us and making us all terrible and it being so unfortunate. I love these people and they love me. Without the internet, living in Waterford, Michigan right now with my mother would be unbearable, instead of just temporarily unpleasant.

One of the books he sent me was a short story collection by Robert Boswell called The Heyday of the Insensitive Bastards. Boswell came to my school in Montana during my first year for a guest workshop. I didn’t know who he was but I thought he gave us pretty good advice about writing. He explained to us why Chekhov’s “Lady with a Dog” is so good and why John Cheever rules, which I already knew but it’s always fun to take a moment to be like, “Hey, remember how much Cheever rules?” So much.

After the workshop we took him to one of our bars, The Union. The waitress has feathered blonde hair. All told it’s a pretty shitty bar; back then they didn’t even have a credit card machine. But they have this game called “Cornhole” where you lob beanbags across the room into a platform with a hole in it which I like because I’m pretty good at it for a girl.

This was back when I drank but I must not have drank too much that night for some reason, because I ended up driving a few of my friends home, plus a drunk Robert Boswell back to his hotel. One thing led to another and somebody in the car brought up salsa. Boswell was adamant that Montanans couldn’t possibly know anything about good salsa. None of us were from Montana but it was a point well taken nonetheless. For authentic and true salsa we would have to visit him in Santa Fe. “Come visit me in Santa Fe,” Robert Boswell told us, “And I will feed you authentic salsa.” It was one of those promises where even in the moment you know you’re never going to fucking visit Robert Boswell in Santa Fe to eat salsa, but still, I knew we were making a nice memory.

So far I’ve read the first story in the book. It’s called “No River Wide,” and it’s 38 pages long. I didn’t like it at first because the prose is sort of dense and the beginning is confusing. For example, I don’t know why the fuck it’s called “No River Wide.” (The allusion is in there somewhere I’m sure, but I missed it.) It sets up a complicated time structure from the start: we are two years in the past, the present and then some weird mix of the two at the end. Needless to say the story grew on me or why else would I be talking about it. It turned out to be the kind of novel-sized work Alice Munro used to write before she just started throwing whatever bullshit she wanted to in a blender.

Digression: I don’t know why I’m shitting on Alice Munro. (That’s not true. I do.) I’m sick of her publishing stories in the New Yorker that seem good but aren’t. She used to be a writer with a secret, but now she’s just using the same formula to give us the same secret, which would be fine except these long, fake secrets are taking up too much space. I’m the jealous type. Let’s move on.

Boswell’s story is highly literary. It’s the kind of story you can’t get for free in the online indie journals we often read and write for. What am I saying? this is a friendly reminder, I guess. Don’t forget about old white men who write books. They’re filled with painstaking craft and hard to get at emotional truths! If you used to love Alice Munro but have since turned on her, you’ll love Robert Boswell! /Reading rainbow.

One last thing. I wrote a blog post last week about blah blah blah because it was a topic that caused me concern. But for some reason it bugged me and I didn’t advertise the update on facebook, where most of my traffic comes from. I thought I didn’t like it because there are a couple of bad sentences I’m too lazy to pinpoint and fix, but really I don’t like it because it’s stupid and I’m full of shit and I should stop apologizing all the time. It’s boring. You don’t care. I needed to write it for me, but not for you. I would delete the post but then you wouldn’t know what I was talking about now.

My good Internet friend who I’ve never met named Aaron left me a comment to this effect and I was starting to get it. Then this real life friend of mine got drunk on my couch and told me I was beautiful. He kept repeating himself because he was drunk and stuck in a loop. I never once believed him and it never  got old.

Reading and writing in 2012, yo. Onward and Upward.



let’s not make a big deal about the new year, 2012 edition.

Here’s some lists for 2012!

Social lessons I learned in 2011:

1. You know, I don’t think men like it when you are very blunt and autistic about sexual things. Like, say you’re hanging out and it seems as though things are moving towards pants coming off… I used to think they would find it very refreshing if you made an abrupt announcement like, “It’s about time for the pants to come off,” but now I think maybe they don’t like that! I think it has something to do with romance or something.

2. Regarding the art of small talk: Now, I find that people are very boring and are always saying boring things to me, and yet, when I try to reciprocate with more boring, the other person looks bored! I will start talking about how I saw a series of books from my childhood at a Salvation Army. I will tell them how it reminded me of being young and that I considered buying some of the books, but the plot thickens when the books turn out to be pretty expensive, like two dollars a book or something, at the Salvation Army! And the person’s eyes glaze over and they start interrupting you or talking to someone else in the area. The lesson is that even though other people are boring all the time, you still have to not be boring. It doesn’t seem fair but we learned a long time ago that life wasn’t fair, right?

3. People don’t like self deprecating humor as much as I thought they did. It makes them uncomfortable. Jokes should be situational, or maybe based on manipulating language or exposing basic truths in new and pleasant ways. Turns out nobody wants to hear how fat I think I am.

4. This list is silly. I learned a lot of other more important things but I don’t want to talk about it anymore.

Books I read at the MacDowell Colony from Nov-Dec of 2011:

1. Smashing Laptops, by Josh Wagner
2. Freedom, by Jonathan Franzen
3. Blueprints of the Afterlife, by Ryan Boudinot
4. Preston Falls, by David Gates
5. The Heart Beneath the Heart, (long essay) by Rick Bass
6. Ray, by Barry Hannah
7. The Devil All the Time, by Donald Ray Pollock

Books I started but didn’t finish:

8. In Persuasion Nation, by George Saunders
9. Moby Dick, by Herman Melville
10. Infinite Jest, by David Foster Wallace
11. The Savage Detectives, by Roberto Bolano

Movies I saw in theaters in 2011, listed here without comment or Ceremony:

Midnight in Paris, Moneyball, Another Earth, Take Shelter, What’s Your Number?, Conan the Barbarian, The Muppet Movie, Cave of Forgotten Dreams, 50/50

There might be more, but that’s all I can remember.

My top 3 Favorite Blog Posts from 2011, written for me, about me, and chosen by me.

1. Whatever, about depression and the animal kingdom.

2. Sorry For Being Weird, a post about being sorry for being weird. (Honorable mention, its followup: Sorry for Being Sorry about Being Weird.)

3. how I spent my writer’s vacation, authored drunk alone in a cabin in the woods.

2012, yo. Let’s do something cooler!

Happy Time Music Playlist for 2012, affectionately titled: Bring Me a Higher Love. These songs are handpicked to bring me a higher love in both romantic and divine realms of existence.

1. “Higher Love” by Steve Winwood

2. “Something” by the Beatles

3. “You Are the Sunshine of my life” by Stevie Wonder

Talking Book is a concept album that begins with idealized love, goes on a detour into the black man’s experience, dabbles in the loss of idealized love and heartbreak and then finally ends on a note of “try, try again.”

4. “It’s Boring/You Can Live Anywhere you Want” by YACHT

5. “Walking on Sunshine” by Katrina and the Waves

Fry always sings this in the shower. It’s adorable every time.

6. “My Sweet Lord” by George Harrison

7. “Roll Away Your Stone” by Mumford & Sons

Sigh No More is a concept album about rejecting romantic love for something more heavenly and divine, and that’s why it’s my favorite album of the last decade. In case you were wondering what I thought about it.

8. “Foxglove” by Murder By Death

9. “Everything’s Alright” by Jesus Christ Superstar

10. “Wildflowers” by Tom Petty

11. “Once In A Lifetime” by Talking Heads

12. “This is the Day” by The The

13. “The Greatest” by Cat Power

This song is probably about suicide or something, knowing Ms. Marshall. I haven’t bothered to listen closely to the lyrics. Let’s just say it’s about me being the greatest.

14. “I’m the Man Who Loves You” by Wilco

15. “Happy Man” by Sparklehorse

Yeah, I know he fucking killed himself. Whatever.

16. “(Your Love Keeps Lifting Me) Higher” Jackie Wilson


Vanquish, OED definition = defeat thoroughly

I’ve been walking around with a worn, red copy of The Catcher in the Rye in my satchel for the last week or two, which is just, you know, not a recipe for happiness.

The book has changed for me some since I read it 100 times in high school, but not too much I guess. It’s a book of profound sadness, but there’s some levity. I think as a kid I took every scene deathly serious. I’ve been thinking about it in terms of my own novel. I want to write something “voice driven” (take a moment to puke and come back) and sad and breezy and interesting. In high school I sent a promise to my grown up self not to abandon me. I was a passionate, smart teenager, and I wanted literature that reflected that people like me existed to prove we weren’t all fucking morons who listened to bad music and feared authority. So I’ve toyed around with writing a novel from a 17-year-old girl’s perspective. But you know what, 17-year-old self? I don’t think I can do it. Sorry. I fear it will be too boring and painful, and I can’t slip into YA. That’s just something I cannot do at this time. Back to the drawing board.

Time out: click on the link under “small stories” and vote for mine at Snake Oil Cure. If you want. It’s called, “Bad Day.” I want to win for personal reasons. Personally, I like winning. :Time in.

One more thing about The Catcher in the Rye before moving on. This is for the search engines. Holden Caulfield is a 6 on the enneagram. He’s not a 4 or a 5 like I know you all want him to be. Look at the way he is simultaneously repelled and attracted to people, the way he roams the streets and is dying to have conversations with everybody. Look at how he thinks one thing about someone and says the exact opposite. At one point he says he’s “anxious as hell” or “nervous as hell” or something like that; I forget which. He’s insanely counter-phobic. Think about it.

And here’s one more thing for lazy high school English teachers. It’s neither insightful nor true to conclude that the big, take home point of the book is the paradox of Holden Caulfield claiming everyone is a phony whilst being a phony himself. Despising the piano player and simultaneously asking to have a drink with him isn’t phony. It’s psychologically honest. People live in contradictory states all day every day. Holden is sixteen and naive and displays age appropriate cynicism. He’s frustrated with retarded social conventions and who can blame him? Not this girl. 12 years since we first met, and I still want to marry Holden Caulfield and vanquish my illiterate enemies.


I played terrible poker last night. I don’t know if you play, but it’s like this: sometimes you feel on, and sometimes you make a bet or check, and just a second after your brain says, “Why the fuck did I do that?” I mean, at one point I tried to bluff this dude out of $40 pots with $5 raises on the river. (For the uninitiated: that’s stupid. He would be insane not to call that. He was “pot committed.”) It’s embarrassing to play bad poker as a woman. It just reaffirms the other player’s beliefs about the fairer sex. Anyway, it was only by some miracle I didn’t bust out and managed to recoup my funds and break even. I won $41 dollars on my $40 investment and made a big drunk production about giving the dealer a shitty $1 tip. I can get real belligerent when I play poker, you might be surprised to learn.

What a game, what a game.


a big bang out of buying a blanket.

I’m starving and stark raving, but nothing, nothing, will get me out of bed to make myself breakfast. I woke up with a head that felt pulled apart by horses. I made coffee. I puked up the coffee and drank some more. Like every morning, I laid in bed and looked at the Internet and re-evaluated my life.

I’ve been sick all week. Here are the places my illness has been travelling.

Monday: A tickling in my throat and persistent coughing.
Tuesday: The throat but more so, and like bubbles travelling throughout the rest of my body. A terrible ache, fever, fatigue. I had to go to work and write all my articles and event listings anyway. I felt proud of myself, and also tired.
Wednesday: A little better but still bad. It’s all in my nose and sinuses and I’m still very tired. Dumb and high in the head but not in a fun way. I took the day off.
Thursday: The nose knows. The neti pot fails to irrigate my sinus cavities.
Friday: The illness has become existential. It’s just a minor cold, nothing more, but I’m still so tired, and I have this weird strung out feeling like I took ecstasy yesterday and I’m clad in that hung over cloak I used to wear a lot. I wanted to go out and see my friends but I just couldn’t. I rewatched the heartbreaking, wonderful, poetic and tragically true DFW interview with Charlie Rose. I’m rereading The Catcher in the Rye. I drank a juicebox for grownups with three glasses of red wine inside and went to bed.
Saturday: Coffee colored vomit, but that’s the drinking. It’s still just the slight cold in my nose. Really, I’m all better.

There’s no reason to be so down; things are going really well for me. Got an email from the MacDowell Colony and they gave me a fellowship to go stay there and work on my novel this fall. I could go for up to 8 weeks but my bosses and I compromised on 4. I may live to regret that but a month of writing summer camp still sounds like a great time. I’m really, really happy and excited. I allowed myself to want this, a lot, and this time, I didn’t get hurt.

My mom loves me and is always proud of me and on my side. After I told her, she sent me this text message. It’s so charming I want to have it framed: OMG. James Baldwin wrote Giovanni’s Room at the MacDowell Colony.

Okay. I might be willing to make myself breakfast at this time, but something tasteless and Soviet, because I can’t smell anything and I’m still not interested in fun. It feels good to write and I thank you as always for reading.


literary adventures, part 1.

  • My sister is four years older. She read every night under the covers and I thought that seemed like a brainy thing to do. I inherited all the books. I always liked books and I was always messy. It started with a strip of duct tape across the pink carpet but I couldn’t contain my mess and I must have thought it was hilarious to throw clothes over, but anyway, they put me in a walk-in closet where my bedroom stayed for the next several years and I’m sure that led to a lot of reading.
  • My sister taught me how. At first I just memorized the book, but after awhile they saw through that parlor trick and kept changing up the material. I don’t know when this was. The normal age people read.
  • In elementary school every year we got to write stories in bound books made of cardboard and wallpaper, and I thought authoring a good book made you powerful. Where did I come up with that idea? He-Man and Shera get their power by Greyskull. Gem had a magic guitar or something. Some questions just remain unanswered.
  • In fourth grade we had a substitute. He read us “The Tell-Tale heart” and I was like, whaaaaaaaaat? I wanted to pull the halloween decorations down from the attic in spring and drape spiderwebs all over the furniture.
  • Two years later on the first day of sixth grade at the big new middle school where my life was about to turn into a daily horror show but I didn’t know that yet, our first hour teacher tried to lighten the mood by offering a prize to whoever could tell him the author of “The Pit and the Pendulum,” and I screamed Edgar Allan Poe because I didn’t yet know it wasn’t cool to read and know things. Mr. Roth gave me a dollar out of his own wallet, and I thought, middle school is weird.
  • In seventh grade we read a Jack London story, one of the dog point of view ones. Something devastating happened to the dog, and the dog fully realized how hard his life was going to be thereafter, and then came the single sentence, He sat down. My teacher said, “look at that. Notice how simple it is and how much meaning it conveys.” I thought it was so profound. I looked around the room to see if anybody else was having a moment but they all looked cruel or bored or frightened, like always. Fuck all of them. I knew what I’d learned, and my mind was blown and I’ve never ever forgotten it.
  • “High school’s better than junior high. They’ll call you names, but not as much to your face” – Welcome to the Dollhouse.
  • This is getting too long. I’ll add more later.

Of course it’s never how you remember it. Back in fourth grade the substitute was just a grown up, an anonymous old person. In memories after that I matured and decided he was 25 and sexy. I’ll never know, and I can never go back and say, “hey, edgy substitute. you changed me.”

I found the Jack London quote, and again it’s not quite the way I remember. I think it was, “He sat down, and the men laughed at him,” and it’s from The Call of the Wild.

I think I remember at one point magic was real, and tiny leprechauns lived in the grass and used mushrooms for umbrellas, but again I may be mistaken.


the first day of the rest of your month.

Dear Diary,

The alarm went off at 8:30 or something. I read act IV of Hamlet on my kindle next to a crabby, sleepy bear. I think his stomach hurt; I don’t know. It snowed all yesterday and this morning and then got a little warmer. Slush. Everybody hates the weather. We (the great collective we) seem to remember things going differently last year, a less shitty February. We are not yet consoled by the arrival of March but maybe we’re getting there?

Got myself caught up on the Charlie Sheen thing. Subsequently adopted “I’m tired of pretending I’m not special” as life mantra.

Read an article Alice sent me about how to define a vague relationship or something like that.

Went to Shakespeare class, where once again I failed to have anything valid or interesting to contribute.

I ate a breakfast burrito from the campus cafeteria with the coeds. It was so good. I love breakfast burritos.

Wrote 639 new words for an old story. Concluded it wasn’t enough and I would never amount to anything.

Read an article on why young men suck at everything but getting laid and 6 reasons why humans should be terrified of crows.

Read Kate’s story and the first two chapters of Ted’s novel. I walked around campus holding up Ted’s manuscript in front of my face like some super nerd. Realized what I was doing halfway to the bus but elected not to stop myself.

By 5pm today I had already tweeted 13 times. What on earth about, you might be wondering.

Passed two bums on the footbridge smoking weed and having a blast like they owned the place. I gave one of them a dollar and the other 50 cents and they said without prompting, “it’s cool, man, we share everything.”

Went to the grocery store. Came out at exactly 5:15 across the street from the 5:15 bus stop. A different homeless guy stopped me and started prattling on about could I give him my address and his wife was over there and a broken carburetor, but I was anxious about missing the bus and I literally said to him, “Shut up. I’m going to miss the bus. Here’s a dollar.” Turned out there was no need to be so terse, but pardon me.

The bus was 5 minutes late, just like it always is, and I rode it home without incident. People chitchatted about being sick of the weather. Someone pointed out that it was only March 1st, after all, and the snow was not atypical. This person was not well received.

Came home with the intention of exercising but ate a sandwich instead.

I Read Missoula’s Missed Connections page on craigslist for about an hour and then wrote 180 words of a poem inspired by one of the ads titled, “you have an orange coat.” Decided I will make my students do something similar tomorrow, except not a poem because nobody likes poems. Also, these kids signed up for a fiction class.

Around 7pm I wanted to put on my pajamas and go to bed. I started feeling drained and useless and I wondered what I’d been doing all day. Felt that the beginning of the month was paramount and I wanted to ask something extraordinary of myself.

I mustered up the energy to write this blog post. Had the idea it would be a good goal to write a blog post every day for the month of March but thought better of making any promises. We’ll see how it goes. What do you care? You don’t care.

I switched to the present tense. Or did I?

You’re up to date and I’m writing in real time, which is lame and dumb. Sorreeee!


Kindle you don’t set on fire.

1. I bought myself a kindle with all the money I don’t have. First let me digress a second. Money. If you consider my debt, I literally have none. I have less than none. Every single thing I buy puts me more in debt. I am free falling, the same as everyone I know is. Graduate school, jobs that don’t pay, etc. We’re doomed! People should be more concerned. That’s my position.

2. But back to my kindle. For my first official purchase, I ordered Honored Guest, a short story collection by Joy Williams. I have to conclude that she is the greatest short story writer of all time. I have never loved anyone’s work as much as that crazy woman, forever clad in sunglasses I’ve heard. What a badass. She came to visit my school a year before I got here. What a cunt. Here are some of the lines that I “underlined” using my “kindle,” from her story “Congress.”

      a. Then the phone would ring and Jack would begin his daily business of reconstructing the lives of hair and teeth when they had been possessed by someone. A detective a thousand miles away would send him a box of pitted bones and within days Jack would be saying, “This is a white male between the ages of twenty-five and thirty who didn’t do drugs and who was tall, healthy, and trusting. Too crusting, clearly.”


      b. The taxidermist was a genius. He couldn’t make an animal look dead if he wanted to.


      c. “…so much better than a zoo. Zoos are so depressing. I hear the animals are committing suicide in Detroit. Hurling themselves into moats and drowning.”


      d. “Excuse me,” Miriam said quietly to Irene, “but why are you all here?”


    e. “I’m a poet,” a man with a shovel-shaped face said.

3. Believe it or not, I really don’t want to talk about this on my website, but since I have ventured into murky waters recently by mentioning my loneliness, I feel its my responsibility to tell you all that you can stop holding your breath, for I have found a boyfriend. He is a great man. We like to look into each other’s eyes and marvel at what wonderful taste we both have in books and movies. I know, I know. If I weren’t involved I would want to barf, too. But I wouldnt if I had Kratom, Kratomystic, https://kratomystic.com with me all day to keep me sane,

4. I wrote this thing about rejection letters on Thumbnail. And they’re publishing one of my stories next week. I’ll link you to it later! It’s funny how I’m wildly successful and still feel like a shithead all the time. HAHAHAHA

5. I have a superstition about evenly numbered lists. I should say more. I love you? I love twitter. Why do you hate twitter? It’s so good. Follow me on twitter or just go to my twitter page and read it sometimes.


Let’s not make a big thing about new years this year.

1. The appliance repairman that came to my mother’s house this week.

A spry, wily guy, he looked like a Milk Man more than anything. He was very enthusiastic about our particular dryer model, the one that wouldn’t shut off and apparently had caught fire several times internally. From inside the front panel he pulled out charred lint, a bunch of sewing needles, and about 10 dollars in change. He told me a needle pricked him and I said, “I’m so sorry” and he said, “It’s part of my job.” It was an easy repair, he assured me. “It’s the older models that last,” he said. I said what anyone in their right mind would have said, which was: “they don’t make them like they used to.” When it was over, he shook my hand and said, “It’s the best dryer ever made.” He loves his job so much!

2. My mother doesn’t understand anything about technology.

I might as well be a Sorceress in a hooded robe sent from the future to set up the wii fit. How does the TV know where the remote is pointing? I don’t understand the technology either, Mom, I just go with it! The flipside is that she has unreasonable expectations, like if the Internet acts up for a second then the whole thing is broken. “Let’s call a repair man over here,” she says, after about 9 seconds. She also doesn’t understand why they don’t make an 80’s shit metal version of Karaoke Revolution, which, fair enough. I’m not saying that wouldn’t be fun to play, just that market forces are not on her side.

3. There’s no place for me in this world.

You can’t go home again, and other truisms as well. My friends treat me like an over educated science experiment, like a floating brain in a jar that is radioactive. It might sound great, but really I dislike it.

4. I saw Black Swan twice already and I have to conclude

That I do not want to be a ballerina.

5. What I’ve read so far from the winter break reading list:

a. Alice Fulton, “If it’s Not too Much to Ask”
b. Ann Beattie “A Vintage Thunderbird”
c. Charles D’Ambrosio “The Point”
d. Thom Jones “Cold Snap”
e. Lydia Davis “Kafka Cooks Dinner”
f. in progress: Samuel Beckett’s novel, Molloy

And I’ll tell you what: they were all great. Every single one of them. And again, in reference to number 3 on this list, I can assure you that the general public couldn’t give a fuck. Nobody cares about literature outside of the university system. You knew it was bad, but I assure you, it’s worse than even that. I’m not saying that people don’t read, but they all read the same five authors. The Girl with The Fucking Airport Book Trilogy, David Sedaris, etc. We’re doomed. The world is doomed. All plants will die. All vegetation will die. Radiated men will eat the flesh of radiated men…

Sorry I snapped.

I just want to go back to my little mountain town where everybody is a pretentious fuckhead, instead of here in Waterford, Michigan, where it’s just me.

6. This New Year I resolve to be less narcissistic.

I told someone this and he reacted with genuine bafflement. He seemed to think it was a necessary feature of being a writer. Here at mollylaich.com, we respectfully disagree.


Other Terrors Lurk!

There are places you don’t and can’t know about. People are trapped there and God has forgotten them. No one knows anything about them. If anything, the statues are made out of them. There are worlds where damned children eat cereal made of maggots – worlds where you might watch your hands turn into hooves. Beware also ordinary horrors. Blood in your saliva, a bus stop and swollen feet, dropping your children off at school or a loveless marriage: imagine it. Know that other terrors lurk. Know that a person can dig a hole down into their stomach and then crawl inside of it like an imploding star. I talk to you from there.

This is a fun little prose poem I’ve been writing in my journal that never seems to end. I don’t want to publish it here, but I have to. The uglier the update, the more urgent the need to archive. I’m not saying I wasn’t influenced by this David Lynch film.

Things are going well for me in the writing world, except for the writing part. I believe I have the lifestyle pretty well down. There’s the crippling loneliness, the medicating, the fasting and repenting. I feel a little sick. I want to love but don’t always know how. Yes. I think I’ve got a great portion of it figured out, and the rest? Well, how important is the writing really? They’re just words. Writing is okay but what I’d really love to do is love.

I compiled this winter reading list from friends and lovers in the English department at the university of Montana. Please be assured that notable writers in the community may well have recommended some of the items on this list. I tried to make a new page for it but wordpress confuses me. You will find the list in the “comments” section of this post.

What the Hell’s it doing out there, Christmas?

You might be surprised to learn that I hate Christmas, but I love my mother, and the point is that I’m headed to Detroit for a couple weeks. Last I heard from the D, they were shooting disaster films and carrying one another to heaven. Is it true that you can’t go home again? With any luck, I will talk to you from there.