writing

News 'n' Views - July 2018

Howdy, howdy! I've got some pretty big news to share but FIRST...

How's your summer going? Mine's been all right--ok that's me being slightly dishonest. It's been pretty stressful and very unsummer-like. Things have been on the stressful side in terms of family and personal stuff that's had my head in a tizzy. Then I went and caught a nasty cold--summer colds are possibly the grossest things to happen to the human body. It's also been rainy and damp all week and I've felt like I've been in a permanent mental fog. So that's been... fun?

BUT I SAID I HAVE GOOD NEWS AND HERE IT IS:

I'll be writing the all-new BETTY & VERONICA series out later this year from Archie Comics! I've had a blast writing Vixens and I'm excited to continue writing for the two iconic characters--this time taking the girls into more uncharted territory--senior year of high school!

The news of the series broke at the New York Times. I know. Kind of a BFD and I'm still kind of in shock about it! You can read the full article about the milestone Archie #700 relaunch here. I also did a follow-up interview with SyFy Wire that you can read here

Here's a look at some promotional art by the amazing Marguerite Sauvage:

09archie_art2-superJumbo.jpg

So yeah... I'm pretty excited and I hope you all dig it! And speaking of Betty & Veronica... Betty & Veronica: Vixens Vol. 1 is available in bookstores everywhere now! It collects the first arc/5 issues of Vixens. It's super weird to actually see my name on something in bookstores--but very, very cool.  

Vixens-V1.jpg

And one more writerly update before I go and down myself in Mucinex--my newest Razorcake article is live! In it I discuss my attempts at managing my anxiety by digital means. One of which is my own personal therapy of writing these articles every other month. They really help put things in perspective for me and I'm always honored when people reach out to tell me that they can connect with them. I'm super thankful to Razorcake for letting me sharing my stories.

That's all I got now! Time to bid you all achoo! ;)

Jamie

HELLLLLOOOOO, INTERNET!

Hello there, boils, ghouls and gender-non-subscribing spirits! I'm back with another installment of "Hey, did you miss me? I promised I'd update regularly then didn't bother to post anything for SIX MONTHS but it's okay cuz I'll get better at it!" You see, it's the fun thing I do where every six months the crippling anxiety and mounting pressure of maintaining an online presence finally gets to me. Then I get the cold sweats looking at my unpublished and unfinished drafts. THEN I start shaming myself for how often I let this happen. Finally I end up writing a blog post, usually to talk about how little I've updated my blog with a promise to change going forward. 

See? Just like I said, FUN.

Well no wallowing in self-pity this time (any more than I already have), let's get into the good stuff:

  • My newest Razorcake article is up now--it's about how big of a crybaby I am! 
  • Betty & Veronica: Vixens #6 is on-sale now, and Vixens #7 will be on sale June 13!
  • Speaking of which, if you're on, affiliated with, or know of an all-female roller derby team that would like to be featured in an upcoming issue of VIXENS (or have their very own variant cover) shoot me a message via the contact page or DM/tweet @ArchieComics on Twitter! 
  • TONIGHT (that's June 1, 2018) from 6:00 - 8:00 PM at the New York Historical Society: QWERTY, Girls Write Now's digital expo is taking place! I'm so honored to be a part of this community and I can't wait for every one to see what this year's digital media making teens have in store for everyone. Speaking of which, check out my incredible mentee Kylie's blog, The Cicada Effect. I'm so constantly inspired by her and in awe of her work and ambition and her blog is a great place to see the mission she's undertaken as a way of bettering her community and the world around her. Listen to them!! 

That's all for now, folks! 'Til next time! (Which will hopefully be in under six months!)

Jamie

September Update: VIXENS, RAZORCAKE and more!

Howdy, howdy, howdy! I haven't given a proper update in quite some time--sorry about that!--but that doesn't mean I haven't been writing. Albeit, I've fallen massively behind on my personal writing endeavors, but it's all good cuz I've got some awesome writerly news to share with you:

I'm going to be writing a brand new COMIC BOOK called BETTY & VERONICA: VIXENS coming to comic shops this November! Archie Comics' iconic BFFs Betty & Veronica get a badass makeover and start an all-female motorcycle gang--think if Betty and Veronica were in a Russ Meyer/Quentin Tarantino/John Waters film, with art by Eva Cabrera, colors by Elaina Unger and letters by Rachel Deering.

I'm super stoked to be working on this and I hope y'all add it to your comic pull lists or just grab a copy at your local comic shop on November 15th.  

Here's the article from The Hollywood Reporter (holy poop!) announcing the title. And here's an interview I did with The Mary Sue about it. 

And I've still been working with Razorcake on my bi-monthly articles, I just didn't get a chance to post the most recent ones up on here. The first is about my penchant (and simultaneous disdain) for clutter, and the most recent one is about our dear leader and how I really, really don't like nuclear war. 

Laura_Collins_Nuclear_Meltdown_q_1.png

I hope to have even more cool stuff to share with you in the near future! Happy September! 

Writing Update!

Happy May, y'all! Here's a quick li'l update about a couple (literally) new and noteworthy writing updates:

1.) My newest Razorcake article is live now - "I Don't Deserve Friends" - I think the title pretty much sums it up!

2.) One of my POEMS is now up at Quail Bell Magazine, titled "Even Mother Nature Marches." Fun fact about me: many times I've proclaimed "I hate poetry." It's mostly because I just feel like I'm terrible at it. I can't help but force myself to rhyme and it often feels more like a shoddy children's nursery rhyme than a great piece of literature. I was so moved to write this poem thanks to the country's current climate, that I didn't really give myself enough time to beat myself up over it before submitting it. Huge thanks to Quail Bell for accepting my submission, posting it, and reminding me once again of how much I really don't hate poetry. 

And here's a bonus plug that has nothing to do with me or my writing: my two buds Drew and Jordan make hilarious online videos and even have their own metal talk show, Two Minutes to Late Night. You've probably seen it floating around the interwebs. They just released their second episode and it's amazing. There's a very special musical cover at the end, so make sure you stay tuned! I don't want to spoil the surprise, but trust me: you'll want to see this. *coughit'sPurpleRaincough* 

 

 

HAPPY SPRING, EVERYBODY! I hope to update again soon! *coughprobablyinanotherthreemonthscough* 

From the Vault: Creative Non-Fiction Prompt 2/6/13–Time Travel

In honor of the 100th anniversary on February 1 of New York City’s famed Grand Central Station, write an essay about a time in your life when you travelled—it could be daily travel, such as the commute to and from a job; seasonal travel, such as heading to a beach community every summer; or a vacation, such as a trip to a foreign country. Focus on what compelled you to go and the transition of leaving one place and arriving in another.

“Come on, where the hell is this bus? You know, years ago, the bus would come a few minutes early and they’d let you sit inside with the air conditioner on if it was hot out like this, not make you wait in the heat like animals.” The blazing sun beat down upon my small face as my grandmother and I waited for the #26 Beeline to take us home. Every day after school an executive decision had to be made: walk 10 minutes and wait in the heat for the bus or walk 10 minutes and wait in the heat for the train? On this day, we opted for the bus. By the time we reached the bus stop, we realized it probably would have been cooler to wait for the train.

With my mother now working a 9-5 job, my grandma and I were left to our own devices to get home. If the weather was nice enough, we’d walk. The walk through the quaint town my grammar school was located in usually stopped being so wonderful when my heavy, rolly backpack started to weigh us down and we’d spend the rest of the trip irritated and praying that someone, anyone, would spot us alongside the road and give us a lift. Sometimes we were just lucky enough for that to happen, but not very often. Our other option was the train. We’d hop on and ride it the one stop home, hopping off right as the ticket-taker got to our car. I never realized that riding one stop rarely required a ticket, so I felt as if we were doing something wrong and dangerous. My grandmother noticed the look of amazement on my face the first time it happened, so she made a game out of it from that point on. “Quick, he’s in the next car; let’s stand by the door so he won’t notice us!” She’d whisper to me. It made the humdrum trip exhilarating, and then quickly back to mundane once we’d leave the magical Grand Central-bound train and get off at the Fleetwood stop, walking through the pigeon-shit piss-scented tunnel into the outside world. Then I’d get a bagel sandwich at Dunkin’ Donuts, which was pretty nice.

It was the last week of fourth grade and it was unseasonably warm for late June. Fortunately, the last week of school also meant it was dress down week, so I had the option of wearing something cooler than the stuffy white collared cotton top and navy blue cotton/polyester blend shorts, cuffed ankle socks and loafers uniform I’d wear any other day. (Most girls opted for the much more flattering light blue skirt, but I found the awkward boy-tailored shorts to be more my style. And in 8th grade when I would ruin them and many a classroom chair with period blood I’ll look back and be content with my clothing decision.) However, my forest green coolots were still not cutting it in the unbearable heat. I closed my eyes and dreamed of going home, changing into my swimsuit, diving into my pool in our backyard, and swimming, the cool, chlorine water covering my entire body.

Then I remembered that I didn’t have a pool. Or a backyard. And that my best option would be to turn on my old, cumbersome AC in my room and take a cold shower or bath—which was never fulfilling NOR did it ever really do the trick of cooling me down. But it was my only option, and so I embraced it, and thinking about it at least helped me cope with our wait. My grandmother was still cursing the bus driver when the bus crawled up to the bus stop, #52: Destination Secor Housing, Bronx, NY. Damn!

The bus was an adventure in and of itself as well. The yellow cord was like a lifeline, forget to pull it and you’re done for, doomed to circle around your town on the bus forever. Or you could pull it at the next stop and have to trek your way back to where you’re supposed to be in the snow, scuffing up the brand new glasses you just got from the eye doctor. Another bus creeped up to the stop, #26: Bronxville RR Station. Score!

The bus driver scurried off the bus frantically with a phone in his hand. “Just one moment, everyone, I need to handle a situation at the bus depot. We’ll be leaving shortly,” he said with a think Island accent as he rushed off into the shade. The bus was parked. And locked. And air conditioned. And we, all of my elderly homeward-bound comrades and myself, were on the outside looking in. I’ll spare you the swears that flew out from my grandmother’s mouth, as this is a family publication.

The daily commute is a thing that brings people together. Office workers who hate each other 90% of the time can commiserate if the ride to work was hellish. No one argues whether or not traffic is bad. But even when gas prices soar and roadwork and rubbernecking gets the best of you, pretty much everyone agrees that public transportation is about as bad as it can get. I’m not one of those people. Getting to zone out in my own world for 45 minutes to an hour, doing nothing but watching the world pass quickly by while simultaneously getting in some of the best people watching ever is one of my favorite things. Getting to see familiar faces everyday and piece together life stories based on where they got on and off provides wonderful material for writing. The only thing I really dislike about it is the waiting. The knowing you’ll have to brave the weather but not knowing HOW long you’ll have to brave it for can be a killer. Despite that, I’m thankful for those public transportation trips of my youth. The years of travelling with my grandmother built up my knowledge and resilience in my later, license-less years. But, I mean, if you’re offering me a ride, sure I’ll take it …

The bus driver returned a few minutes later and let us all onto the comfortable, non-sweltering bus. We were able to finally breathe and enjoy the cool air for the five-minute ride home. Our journey was coming to a close. At my grandma’s signal, I reached my small hand up and yanked the yellow-cord. I beamed when the bell gave out a little “ding” and the stop sign at the front of the bus flashed. As the bus approached the stop I could see our apartment, where my bed and my TV and, most of all, my air conditioner were. Repeats of Arthur called my name. The heat wouldn’t bother me anymore, and victory was so close I could taste it. We exited the bus and slugged our way over to our side of the apartment complex and made our way to the front door. The sun was bearing down on us, my skin felt clammy and I could feel the beads of sweat forming after only being outside again for a few minutes. But we made it, we were there. Home was where my heart and sweaty body longed to be. My grandmother placed the key in the keyhole and … nothing happened. It was the wrong key. She had the wrong keys. We had the wrong keys. There was no getting inside until someone either came out and let us in, or we maneuvered our way in through the basement on the opposite side of the building. Even then, we’d still be stuck in the hallway of our apartment until either my mother or grandfather got home hours later.

Another thing I’ve learned from the travels of my youth is to always remember to bring your keys. Do not lose them, and don’t forget them at home. This is something I’m still working on.

In the end, the summer had its victory over us. And I did the only thing I could to accept our crippling defeat: “Maybe we could go and play in the park?”

The slide never burned more than it did on that day, but dammit, it still felt good.


From the Vault is a series of posts from my personal blog that I've liked enough to share here. This post was originally written on this day four years ago.

December - January Update

October Update

Wow, ok so I've been failing miserably at this whole keeping my blog updated regularly thing. Not a surprise, I'm usually terrible at that. I find it much easier to lie in a vegetative state on my couch, internally screaming at myself to move to an upright position and write something--ANYTHING, DAMMIT--and then not writing anything but mentally punishing myself until I fall angrily asleep in an uncomfortable position on my couch. 

BUT MAYBE THAT WILL CHANGE RIGHT NOW!

Since my last update, I've actually started a bi-monthly webcolumn for Razorcake! It's about the topic I write about the best--my own weird brain! Check out the first article here.

(If you're wondering, I'm updating this as I'm currently procrastinating writing the second article right now.)

The Razorcake stuff gets pretty heavy, so I had to counter that some way. I've started writing humor pieces on my Medium account. They're mainly just for me, but hopefully you'll find them funny too.

Here's one where I get very political. Here's one where I try to give some romance advice. And this one I just published--the first of a series where I share my health and wellness routines.

Now, I'm going to attempt to finally finish a short story (one of a larger series) that I've been working on FOREVER. I'd like to get it done this week so I can submit it to a writing contest, so wish me luck!

Love you all!

Jamie

 

From the Vault: Fiction Prompt 2/16/13 – Take A Turn

Write a story of 1,000 words from a main character’s perspective about the moment his or her life took a significant turn. Keep the description about the moment sparse, focusing on what happened versus how it happened. For an example, read Denis Johnson’s short story “Car Crash While Hitchhiking.”  Poetry & Writers.

 

Architectural Digest

“Don’t you know that he’s gay?” Mallory’s words struck me like lightning, even if I wasn’t entirely sure what they meant.

“S-so…” I managed to stutter.

“Gay—you know what that means don’t you?”

I guess my blank stare answered for me.

“He only likes men. Like, loves men. He’ll only fall in love with another man. That’s what gay means—when a man loves a man,” Mallory stated, matter-of-factly.  She was so worldly, she had learned so much more in her twelve years than I had in my seven.

“B-but… but he’s married… to a lady… how can that be?” I felt not only saddened, but betrayed. How could he be in love with a man if he was in a caring and affectionate relationship—not just a relationship, a MARRIAGE—to Carol?

“Jeez, Louise! It’s only a TV show! They’re not married in real life. Just on TV. You know that TV’s not real life…right?!” Mallory was getting impatient with me. Suddenly I felt so small, so much younger than my cousin.  Even though I was aware of our age difference, she always felt like my peer. Someone I could confide in and know that I wouldn’t be judged. Someone who could teach me things without talking down to me or making me feel like an inferior being. But now, they playing field didn’t seem so level any more. I felt like nothing more than a stupid, little child.

“Like, did you think it was on now? It takes place in the ‘70s. It’s not the ‘70s. Jeez, don’t you know ANYTHING?”  Her words got more and more biting and with each syllable it felt like a jagged knife being pushed slowly into my heart.

“…I know…” I managed to whisper sheepishly.

But I didn’t. I didn’t know anything. And in that moment, I became aware of the vast amount of nothing that I knew. A few minutes ago we were engaging in our normal summer routine. Every Wednesday afternoon my cousin would come over while her mom went to work and we’d watch TV together, then we would go to the park with my mother, come back for lunch, and then watch some more TV. When Aunt Karen got home from her job at the daycare center, she’d pick up Mallory. This happened every Wednesday now that stuff was different in Mallory’s house. These were all things I knew, they were all certainties.

I also knew that every day at 1:35 pm The Brady Bunch was on TBS. This was something I could count on. Mallory and I sat on the floor in my living room with the lights off to keep cool. “If we sit on the floor we’ll be cooler since the AC’s broken—I learned that in science class this year!” I informed Mallory. She just shrugged and plopped herself down on the floor next to me. She became infatuated with picking the polish off her nails while I remained infatuated with the person I thought—no, KNEW—was the man I would marry someday.

There was just something about Mike Brady; so tall, so handsome. He wore groovy threads, had the best perm I’d ever seen and was just the perfect husband and father. I knew it was wrong to fall in love with a married man—that’s something I learned in Bible studies—but I couldn’t help it. Part of me wished I could be adopted into the Brady family, but I wasn’t sure if I would be a daughter or a wife.

“People in the ‘70s dressed so badly,” Mallory stated, disinterested in the drama unfolding before us. Will the ever decide on the right wallpaper for their bedroom? “Clothes today are so much better. And ugh, look at their hair.” I liked their hair, but I guess I was wrong. “But I mean Greg’s still kinda cute,” she added.

“I like Mike Brady,” I blurted out. I didn’t mean to say it, but I automatically felt so much cooler and more grown up for having done so. “He’s really cute.” I looked to Mallory for some kind of response, but she just kept playing with her nails. “I’d like to marry him someday,” I meant it.

Mallory finally looked up and stared at me, wide-eyed. I thought I had said something that impressed her—until she started laughing, that is.  “Don’t you know that he’s gay?” I didn’t know what “gay,” was or why it meant I couldn’t love Mike Brady. The rest of the episode ended in a blur, and I never did find out what wallpaper they finally chose.

“Hey, Louise, are you going to watch Beverly Hills 90210 later?” Mallory asked me after the show was over. I shook my head “no.” I wasn’t allowed to watch that show—I was too young, there would be too much I wouldn’t understand. “Lame. Dylan’s such a cutie. I’d marry him someday,” Mallory said proudly. I guess Dylan wasn’t gay.

Mallory and I didn’t really talk for the rest of the day. I was just too ashamed. But before she left I figured it was as good a time as any to ask her that one last thing I didn’t understand, but wanted to know anyway, “Mallory, why doesn’t your dad live with you anymore?”

“Cuz him and mom are getting a divorce.” She said, taking a sip of her Hi-C Ecto Cooler. I supposed that “divorce” meant that two people who are in love stop falling in love. I’d heard that once on TV, but I still didn’t really understand it. Was Mallory’s dad gay? How does someone just stop loving their wife and daughter? It seemed like something Mike Brady would never do. But I guess I was wrong about that, too. I wanted to ask her more, but I held back. The only thing I really understood that day was to never ask a question you don’t really want the answer to.

From the Vault: Creative Non-Fiction Prompt 1/8/15–Mastery

This prompt was posted on Poets & Writers the 8th, but I only just saw it and would like to tackle it.

It’s been said that the difference between a master and a beginner is that, “the master has failed more times than the beginner has even tried.” Whether it’s brewing coffee exactly the way you like it, or earning your black belt in a martial art, learning something new takes focus and dedication. Think about something you have mastered and write about the process you underwent to add this new skill to your repertoire. 

Sometimes I feel as though my life is just a series of scattered non-events. Ideas that seemed great in theory but never even made it past the second or third attempt, let alone in practice. Hobbies and talents that never came to fruition–a messy room filled with collage materials, ukuleles, roller skates, unfilled notebooks and piles upon piles of unread books and comics. I get discouraged when I look at the mess, but it’s much easier to throw something else on top of it then to stab away at it, like a team of cleaning specialists on an episode of Hoarders. Like those, my mess of unfinished work means something to me, too, all hobbies and ideas I swear I’ll one day make a reality, before the mice settle in and the cats eat away at my bones.

I don’t like to consider myself someone who gives up easily. I’d rather not think of myself as lazy, but sometimes when our brains work in hyper-speed it’s hard for our bodies to catch up. I think of all the projects I’d like to begin, and my mind begins to race just looking forward to all the possibilities–then the anxiety and paranoia sets in, making the fantasies seem much more worthwhile than the actual projects. This isn’t to say I don’t care about these tasks I’ve laid before myself–perhaps it’s instead the extreme opposite.

When I stare at the wonderful array of greens, blues, pinks and purples of yarn, all tangled up around two needles that were angrily thrown to the floor after what seemed like my millionth attempt at learning a basic continental stitch, I find it hard to believe I’ve ever had the ability to teach myself a new skill. I was one of the last in my Kindergarten class to learn how to tie my shoes, I couldn’t go in a pool over two feet deep without swimmies until I was 9, I couldn’t blow a bubble or whistle until I was 10 years old. And, the one that still stings the most… I never learned how to ride a bike,

Sure, I could ride a bike with training wheels, but the minute I was left to balance on the lone two wheels the fear of tipping over was so crippling I wouldn’t dare move more than a few inches. After a few failed tries and the growing impatience of my mother and grandmother, I ditched the notion of ever mastering a two-wheeler and just prayed that none of my friends would ever invite me out on any bike riding play dates. Eventually, scooters became more popular and I was able to deftly tackle that new trend in hopes that the want or need for bikes would be long gone. While that was obviously not the case, I still managed to evade ever needing to sit atop the hard, uncomfortable seat of a bicycle for the next 15 years, save for gym equipment.

Between the ages of 16 and 25 I discovered myself falling victim again to those feelings of mobile inadequacy I faced in my younger years. While almost everyone around me got their licenses before college, I was still trailing behind, hitching rides whenever I could or waiting out in the damp, cold weather for the train or bus. “You need to get your license, it’s incredibly important for a woman to know how to drive,” well-meaning adults would tell me, making me feel incompetent not only in my driving abilities, but also as a member of the female sex. (Later, upon finding out that Tina Fey does not drive, conversations in media and society would shift, making the choice to not drive an empowering one instead of playing into a subservient role.) It wasn’t that I didn’t want to drive, I just was scared to. Not scared to drive or even to try, just scared to fail again.

My senior year of high school I took my first road test on a blistery, snowy day after the first large snowfall of the season–a few months after successfully completing school-provided Driver’s Ed. I failed, fairly miserably, and my mood was in conjunction with that miserableness for the rest of the day. Having to admit to everyone I knew–especially all my already-driving friends–about my failure was almost worse than not having a license. I took some time before starting up some more driving lessons (another round of payments from my mother), before embarking on my second road test a year later at the same driving test area. Again, a day just after a mighty snowfall. Again, a miserable failure. This time, I didn’t tell anyone and just let my inadequacy eat away at myself from within, being constantly reminded of how I couldn’t pass not once, but twice, every time someone would remind me of how hapless I was that I couldn’t drive or that I couldn’t afford to live away from my family (of whom I also tried to be an active member of in terms of helping out with things people outside our four walls wouldn’t know about). And so I continued the role of the fiercely co-dependent, incompetent damsel in distress that everyone assumed of me–though that wasn’t my ideal situation.

Finally, a few months after my 25th birthday, while working full time and feeling like too much of a burden on family and those close to me, I decided to face my demons and try–just once more–for that elusive laminated card. I sat through the excruciatingly painful 5+ hours of DMV hell to retake my permit exam, and later, on a spring day, signed myself up for driving lessons (all paid for on my own), and then, for the next 5+ months I went for weekly driving lessons. I never mentioned my past failures to my teacher and just hoped he’d never have to know (he never did), and endured his lessons which were extremely helpful and, without his tutelage, I would not have had the confidence to even think about taking the much-maligned road test again, but were also extremely uncomfortable and unsettling, as with every lesson his remarks would be come more and more intrusive and offensive and his hand would slide higher and higher up my thigh and I felt stuck as a woman who was treated as less than such for not driving, but also having to endure being made into an object of unwanted desire, a patriarchal wet dream of which I wanted to be no part.

And then–on a cool fall late afternoon, same spot as the two times before, I took my driver’s test for what I already deemed would be my final time.

I passed.

Part of it was confidence, part of it was fear of being stuck taking more classes with said teacher, afraid of what liberties he would take next. In embarking on this journey again I got what I had worked hard for, but also lost a sense of self in my inability to speak out about situation. Two months later I bought my own car (and months later another car after an unfortunate hit-and-run) and got my own insurance (without the help the teacher kept promising me, yet putting off in favor of more “lessons”) and just got out on my own. The freedom of having a car was twofold–the usual sense it brings and freedom from having a near panic attack on a weekly basis trying to prep myself for whatever disgusting thing the person who held the key to my freedom would try next.

But I did it. I mastered what I thought would be impossible for me and he–nor anyone with their sly comments or suggestions about my life–could take that away from me. Third time was a charm, and in succeeding it reminded me that just sticking with something until the end can be worth it–but it also taught me that keeping my mouth shut and just accepting typical authoritative structures is no way of life. And now I feel as though I have the ability to smash any of those ideals instead of being subservient to them–or mow them over with my car that I purchased on my own.

Now, looking back to those piles of unconquered dreams and ideas, I realize that if I could weather the storm of the dreaded road test and all of the unforeseen roadblocks that came with it, I can too conquer these–once I acknowledge that the biggest bump in the road is myself. Only I hold the key to my own destiny and, even if I fail, trying again is always an option. Who knows? Maybe now that I’ve conquered an automobile, maybe the ever-dreaded bicycle will be next.

Maybe.

 

From the Vault is a series of posts from my personal blog that I've liked enough to share here. This post was originally written on this day last year.