For longer than I’d care to admit, I have been working on a project that has consumed me less than it should have. That is to say, I have been working on my first novel for far too long.

But today, I’d at least like to talk about it.

Lamont is a story that, at its core, is about the existence of the human soul and exactly how much that soul (or lack thereof) is worth. Okay, that’s a little too abstract and pretentious-sounding. Let’s try again.

Lamont is the story of a small town gripped by the spectre of unexplained disappearances. Of course, like any small town in such circumstances, it comes with a less than squeaky clean past, full of covered-up murders and a history of taking aggressive stances (read: violent) against those suspected of practicing witchcraft.

Everything comes to a head when the son of a wealthy local dairy farmer turns up missing and another boy lands mysteriously in the county hospital ER with several deep lacerations across his back. No longer able to sweep the growing crisis in the town of Lamont, the local pastor seeks out to the only expert hunter he knows capable of dealing with such a paranormal phenomenon.

Despite the fact that she is going through some stuff, the hunter is more than willing to take on the case, for the right price.

And so, the story of Lamont unfolds, a tale of black magic, shapeshifters, and a powerful demonic entity.

Something lurks in the marsh.

Thus far in this blog, I have included a few early drafts of chapters that may or may not appear in the final manuscript. If anyone would be interested, I would enjoy sharing future drafts of Lamont with this blog.

Have I mentioned that I am absolutely horrible with creating a synopsis, blurbs, or actually writing a novel in general. Yeah.

Damp Soil

There’s a place
At the edge of a clearing
Where the ground is never dry
And you still exist
For me

When the moon would begin to wax
We would sit on silver-capped grass
Conspiring through the night
Of great aspirations
Of us

Here the soil resonates
With echoes
Spoken incantations unfurling that which
We have hidden from ourselves
Here we will be together

Year Zero

Hello, my name is Diego Green and I am NOT a writer.

But I’d like to be.

For a very long time, probably the entirety of my adult life, I’ve lived under the assumption that I am a writer. I learned early in life that I had some natural talent for storytelling and wordplay and simply leaned upon that, heavily. So heavy that I’ve gone through life with the belief that if I simply putter about with this craft – a few pages here, a paragraph or two there – that I would eventually, naturally, create The Great American Novel without, you know, pouring my whole entire everlasting soul into it.

But that’s unimportant. That’s all in the past.

What IS important is that I begin to be honest with myself. I am not a writer not because I have no apptitude for it but because I’ve refused to put in the work. And it’s time for that to change.

So here’s the deal for 2019…

This year, I pledge to myself to approach the art of the written word as a novice hungry to learn. I will open myself to new forms of literature and, by extension, actually making headway on a reading list that has been sitting more of less undisturbed for a good half-decade.

I WILL set aside dedicated time on my days off to sit down, with a pen in hand, and write, simply write.

I WILL NOT attempt to make the first draft perfect.

I WILL NOT continue to be so close-minded in regards to modern literature and genre works

I WILL (try very hard) to read something every goddamn day.

I WILL NOT approach the craft as a smug, experienced know-it-all. (I am a babe in the woods…)

I WILL open myself up to criticism and failure and rejection and stop hiding behind a mountain of deleted works.

I WILL perform proper research on subjects I know little about even if I find it extremely tedious at times.

I WILL become a writer.

I don’t know when or how long it will take, but in this year of our lord, 2019, I will begin my journey.

This is my Year Zero.

An Unnecessary Dread of Everything


Fear has been one of my greatest enemies throughout my life.

Fear of the unknown. Fear of appearing foolish. Fear of failure.

Fear has been the self-inflicted setback to almost every attempt I make at progression in my art, in my health, in my knowledge. Lack of confidence, I believe, is not the cause but a symptom of this disease. The true culprit, of course, is crippling anxiety – a demon whose point of origin I cannot quite locate.

Continue reading “An Unnecessary Dread of Everything”

Push It Along | On Writing

There’s nothing more aggravating than experiencing a flood of inspiration and ideas while in the midst of a work shift, completely separated from any means of giving concrete form to thoughts. So, try as you might, you attempt to hold these racing, fluctuating processes inside your head until such a time is reached that pen can be placed against paper (or fingers against keys, as you do).

But, of course, when at last you are able to reach a place of quiet and there is time enough for those thoughts to decompress from within your brain, you find that nearly all traces of plot designs and character developments have escaped you. What’s worse, usually at this point you’ll find that all of your focus has evaporated, your mind exhausted from dealing with the  doldrums of the day-to-day grind. It’s an unfortunate side-effect of working (grateful as you may be for a job in this climate), the mental and spiritual recovery time cutting so deeply into time that should be spent on creativity.

For myself, I run into this problem on a seemingly bi-weekly basis. There’s a cycle, it seems. Sometimes it’s hard to determine where it ends and where it begins. At one point, there is complete and utter hopelessness, a feeling of despair that the current Work-In-Progress will never be completed or that, in its current state, will never amount to anything of worth. Then, during the most inopportune time, sudden and complete Inspiration will strike, and the flood of ideas and mental rewrites will ensue, often with no mode to transcribe in sight. Next, finally the transfer of idea to written word can begin once time and space allows it. Sometimes, this transfer actually does work out, a new direction achieved, and for a brief amount of time, it seems that the flow of work is fully pressurized and perhaps unceasing. This is a temporary state.

Eventually, snags are hit, sentences begin to dry up, and before long the mind takes dark and twisted turns, believing that all the work achieved is actually trash. And thus, the despair once again sets in. All progress banished to the scrap heap.

I guess what I’m getting at is… I need a new modus operandi when it comes to my personal writing process. As many lists of “Tips for Beginning Writers” will tell you, relying on Inspiration is generally a recipe for disaster, or actually, stagnation (which is definitely worse, at least disaster is dynamic). The problem I have is that I look at the project as a mountain to summit, thinking that the peak must be reached as quickly as possible or at not all (lest I freeze to death?) when in reality, the quest for completion is a journey across a variety of terrains. At times the road will be flat and even and at others, the way will include steep ascents as well as descents – some perhaps subterranean.

The point is, writing a novel is not a one-shot sprint or even a marathon, it is not a non-stop achievement that must be pulled across the finish line at all costs so as to avoid any damaging self-reflection. Writing a novel IS a journey, one that will have many rests and setbacks along the way as does any proper adventure. The important distinction here is that a setback should not amount to descending the entire mountain and beginning anew every time something does not read right or a potential story thread leads nowhere or nowhere good.

Even if it isn’t easy, even if progress seems to be moving at a speed just barely above a halt, I must embrace the idea that it is still moving toward completion and that it is definitely not in reverse.

As the abstract Q-Tip once said:
If you can’t pull it, all you gotta do is Push It Along…