Ghosts Over My Shoulder


photo by Shaela Cook

It was never a part of my plan, never something that even factored into my life-changing decision to “pursue my bliss”, to consider what people would think about the inherent uncertainty of the act. It never occurred to me to wonder if people would scoff, or mutter about the rashness of the decision…and I was startled when I, a person known for putting everything I do through the filter of “But what will other people think?“, realized I didn’t care about that. But it surprised me even more when I started wondering what, if anything, the people in my life who have passed would think of my decision, and of my art. What would my brother John, who passed away 20 years ago, think of all this? Continue reading Ghosts Over My Shoulder

Plumbing the Depths

He paused for a moment, hands poised above the keyboard, wondering if he was going to write another story about talking possums, or dumb but lovable deer. “Ah, f**k it,” he muttered, and started another story about a dyslexic lemur that just couldn’t catch a break.

Or maybe not. I started this blog to chronicle my big life decision to leave my retail career after 20 years, and only do doing things that fulfill me creatively and artistically. I know: BOR-ing! No one has ever had that impulse, right? Continue reading Plumbing the Depths

Etsy Store Is Open!

So. Pensive.
photo by Shaela Cook

I just opened my Etsy store. This is the first time I’ve ever sold my art…well since “Feria Artesana” in New Mexico when I sold retablos and wooden birdhouses that I made with my Dad, when I was in middle school. I’m more than a little nervous.

Most photos in the shop (the good ones, I mean) by Shaela Cook. Check out her stuff.

The Story of The Blacksmith and The Impossum

As told in outline form, huge hat-tip to Dave Eggers

Written by Michael James Schneider


The Blacksmith, a blacksmith, lives in time unknown, odd combination of anachronism and technology so advanced it seems archaic. Steampunk? No, probably not.

Handsome (of course), rugged, eyes green but seem startlingly brighter because his face is always covered in soot. Salt and pepper. Something in there about how he will sometimes draw his forearm across his face to wipe away the grime, and gets even dirtier. (Don’t hammer this one too deep, though, people will get it..haha get it? hammer). He is a blacksmith because his father was also a ferrier. No, maybe his father was a sword maker, and Gray (the blacksmith’s name, but everyone calls him Plover) chose early on to be a simple smithy. Is this a cause of a rift? Maybe. Continue reading The Story of The Blacksmith and The Impossum

Little Curtis, Part 2

The second Little Curtis entry. This one was delivered in message form, since by this time there was a character limit imposed on comments on Facebook.

Another “Little Curtis” entry, written out of genial frustration at my friend Julie. I have a blast writing these.

Little Curtis ran up the back stoop, covered in cornsilk and trouble. “Momma! Momma!” He practically tore the screen door off its rickety hinges when he ran into the kitchen, where Betty was stooped over the sink, snapping beans for that night’s casserole.
“Little Curtis! Feet!” she shot back at him, which shut his caterwauling up but good. He stood there in his dirty Buster Brown boots, which he would probably never, ever remember to wipe clean on the boot brush outside the door as long as he was her son. His upper lip trembled, and he looked about to burst into tears. “But Momma…” he trailed off. Continue reading Little Curtis, Part 2

This ends badly.