jofayewrites

[jofayewrites]

Finding 𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔅𝔬𝔫𝔢 ℭ𝔥𝔲𝔯𝔠𝔥

Writing, like most forms of art, is an act of self-exploration. Maybe the whole thing is a little chicken and egg (does the writer create the idea?? does the idea create the writer??? who cares, write the damn thing???) but I think the fact of the matter is at the core of every story is a nugget of truth.

So, grab your flashlight, some parchment for a map, and your compass. We're entering the catacombs of New Orleans to find...

The Bone Church!

Before I get into the nitty-gritty of what this book means to me and drawl on and on about the last eight years of my life spent in the dark underground of New Orleans warlock society, let me give you the synopsis.

So maybe I've never been a warlock, or a rare creature of magic on the run from high society, trying to break a curse while being tempted by the darkness. Maybe I've never fallen in love with a man I met in my dreams or saved the world. The purpose of fantasy — YA fantasy, to be more precise — is to capture the plights and triumphs of young people allegorically, and have a lot of fun in the process.

No, The Bone Church (which has been known by several different names now) comes from somewhere far, far more personal.

Trigger warning here for non-graphic suicide attempts, past self-harm, sensitive mental health conversations.

Let's go back to the beginning. It's July of 2017, and after a suicide attempt, a hospitalization, and an uncomfortable series of therapy appointments and psychiatrist visits, I am a fifteen year old with a life sentence: Type 1 Bipolar Disorder. I haven't written any stories in months. My head is a jungle I can hardly make sense of, and my new medications make me feel... different. Incomplete.

Am I still me? Can I still write?

The Bone Church, originally titled The Girls of New Orleans, and then The Nymphs of New Orleans, came from a place of desperate survival. I crawled out of the deepest pit in the chasm of the earth, ripped apart at my seams, and I began to type. I was fascinated by my own near-death experience and the new way I was forced to see the world. All the things I couldn't unknow or unsee.

TBC opens with Aubrey Morganson being struck and killed in a hit and run accident. After she dies, she resurrects unscathed in the morgue, having touched an unfathomable magic that runs through the core of the city she calls home. This is (of course!!) traumatic, and leaves her permanently changed. She's confronted with a new set of abilities and powers she's always had, but never known. Everything has changed.

So sure, she did die, and I didn't. We were both reconciling who we were destined to be with who we are. And can we become other than what we are — as Marquis De Sade begs of us — should we try?

Similarly, TBC's other protagonist, Miles, has always known magic. But when he has a vision of Aubrey's death and resurrection, the fabric of his society unravels, and everything he thinks he knows is called into question. Familiar, isn't it?

I write a draft in 2017, then again in 2018. Then I forget it. When 2020 rolls around and the world goes into lockdown, I come back to New Orleans to make sense of adulthood, confronting my bipolar disorder like it's an old, dangerous magic. Another hospitalization comes and goes, and TBC saves my life again. I write, write some more, and then edit over the next three years before entering the query trenches.

And then my book flops. It's a sucky hand.

For context, I sent a hundred queries and got some light interest. In then end, I finished with five(?) requests to read the full manuscript, but no offers of representation despite "close calls". A devastating blow for a new college grad with a retail job and no idea what to do next.

But what I gained from shelving TBC is even more valuable than signing with a fledgling manuscript. I learned exactly what plot points I needed to tease out, what voice I wanted to write in, and how to let go of the imaginary agent and audience I'd let stifle my creativity. I began writing for me again. Now, I'm excavating the catacombs toward the Bone Church, and what I have is a damn good book that knows exactly what it is and what it wants to say.

Seven or eight years in the making. And then some.

By the time I sign with an agent and sell the book and it hits the shelves, it'll probably have been a full ten years since I wrote the words 'the first time Aubrey Morganson died, she was only seventeen. It would not be the last.'

For posterity's sake, I'm writing this because one day, a reader battling their mental health might wonder where their favorite book came from. And I want this to be their answer. I am transparently me. Here and queer and a teensy bit full of fear. Baring your soul is scary, after all.

My name is Josephine Faye. I have Type 1 bipolar disorder. It's my superpower and my magic. I feel everything all at once, and when I write, I put every ounce of me into my words. I have danced on the edge of death twice and survived it, and this is why. I've got stories to tell.

Like Hemingway said, time to open the vein and bleed.

So if you read this far, thank you. Stay a while.

Signing off,

Jo ♡

[jofayewrites]

𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔅𝔬𝔫𝔢 ℭ𝔥𝔲𝔯𝔠𝔥

ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴀᴛᴀᴄᴏᴍʙꜱ ᴏꜰ ɴᴇᴡ ᴏʀʟᴇᴀɴꜱ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ᴛᴡᴏ ᴜɴɪᴠᴇʀꜱᴀʟ ᴄᴏɴꜱᴛᴀɴᴛꜱ: ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ, ᴍᴀɢɪᴄ ɪꜱ ʀᴇᴀʟ, ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ, ɪᴛ ɪꜱ ʜᴜɴɢʀʏ.

ʙᴇɴᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄɪᴛʏ, ᴍᴀɢɪᴄ ɪꜱ ʙᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʀʟᴏᴄᴋ ᴄʀᴏᴡɴ ɪɴ ᴀ ᴍᴀᴜꜱᴏʟᴇᴜᴍ ᴋɴᴏᴡɴ ᴀꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ʙᴏɴᴇ ᴄʜᴜʀᴄʜ. ɪᴛ ꜱᴘᴇᴀᴋꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴍɪʟᴇꜱ ᴍᴀᴄᴋʟᴇɴ, ʜᴇɪʀ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴀɢᴇ ᴛʜʀᴏɴᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴀᴜɴᴛꜱ ʜɪᴍ ɪɴ ʜɪꜱ ᴅʀᴇᴀᴍꜱ. ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴀʀᴋɴᴇꜱꜱ ᴄʟᴏꜱᴇꜱ ɪɴ, ʜᴇ ꜰɪɴᴅꜱ ʜɪᴍꜱᴇʟꜰ ᴇxᴘᴇʟʟᴇᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ꜰʀᴀᴍᴇᴅ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴜʀᴅᴇʀ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ᴄʟᴀꜱꜱᴍᴀᴛᴇ. ɴᴏᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ, ʜᴇ'ꜱ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ʜᴀᴜɴᴛᴇᴅ ʙʏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇᴄʜᴏ ᴏꜰ ᴀ ɢɪʀʟ ʜᴇ'ꜱ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴍᴇᴛ ᴀɴᴅ ᴄᴀɴ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ꜱᴀᴠᴇ.

ᴀꜰᴛᴇʀ ꜱᴇᴠᴇɴᴛᴇᴇɴ ʏᴇᴀʀ ᴏʟᴅ ᴀᴜʙʀᴇʏ ᴍᴏʀɢᴀɴꜱᴏɴ ɪꜱ ꜱᴛʀᴜᴄᴋ ᴀɴᴅ ᴋɪʟʟᴇᴅ ʙʏ ᴀ ᴡᴀʏᴡᴀʀᴅ ᴅʀɪᴠᴇʀ, ʜᴇʀ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ ꜱᴘɪʟʟꜱ ᴏɴᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏʙʙʟᴇꜱᴛᴏɴᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰʀᴇɴᴄʜ Qᴜᴀʀᴛᴇʀ ᴀɴᴅ ɪɢɴɪᴛᴇꜱ ᴀ ʜᴜɴᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴇ ʟᴀꜱᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴀɴ ᴇxᴛɪɴᴄᴛ ʀᴀᴄᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴀɢᴇꜱ: ɴʏᴍᴘʜꜱ. ᴛᴏ ꜱᴀᴠᴇ ʜᴇʀꜱᴇʟꜰ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴇʀ ꜰᴀᴍɪʟʏ, ᴀᴜʙʀᴇʏ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ᴘᴜᴛ ʜᴇʀ ᴛʀᴜꜱᴛ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴀʀʟᴏᴄᴋ ᴘʀɪɴᴄᴇ ᴡʜᴏ ʟᴜʀᴋꜱ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱʜᴀᴅᴏᴡꜱ ᴏꜰ ʜᴇʀ ɴɪɢʜᴛᴍᴀʀᴇꜱ ᴡɪᴛʜᴏᴜᴛ ᴄᴜᴛᴛɪɴɢ ʜᴇʀꜱᴇʟꜰ ᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱʜᴀʀᴘ ᴇᴅɢᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ʜɪꜱ ᴄʀᴏᴡɴ.

ᴀꜱ ᴀ ᴄɪᴛʏᴡɪᴅᴇ ꜰɪɢʜᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀ ʙᴇɢɪɴꜱ, ᴀ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ᴍᴀʀᴋᴇᴛ ᴛʜʀᴇᴀᴛᴇɴꜱ ᴀ ᴡɪᴅᴇꜱᴘʀᴇᴀᴅ ɪɴꜱᴜʀʀᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴀɴᴅ ᴅᴀʀᴋ ᴍᴀɢɪᴄ ᴛᴇᴍᴘᴛꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʀᴏᴡɴ. ɪɴ ᴏʀᴅᴇʀ ᴛᴏ ᴘʀᴏᴠᴇ ʜɪꜱ ɪɴɴᴏᴄᴇɴᴄᴇ, ᴍɪʟᴇꜱ ᴍᴜꜱᴛ ꜰɪɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄʜᴜʀᴄʜ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴀᴠᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ɢɪʀʟ ɪɴ ᴀ ᴡᴏʀʟᴅ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ɴᴏ ʜᴇʀᴏᴇꜱ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍᴀɢɪᴄ ɪꜱ ᴏᴜᴛ ꜰᴏʀ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ.

[jofayewrites]

THE PART-TIME POET

The writer without rich parents

Stumbles hungover into 9-5 shithole

To pay for a shithole apartment 

In a shithole neighborhood

Where they sneak cigarettes on the patio

And pray to god they won't get shot

A day characterized by

Early morning coffee grounds

Verbal abuse from Karens with Jesus bumper stickers

The universal language of working to the bone for minimum wage

Like one day the labor might culminate in the

BIG BREAK

headlines!

The writer contemplates the deadline

Ingénues expire at twenty-five

And if you're not the next famous young thing

What are you?

A part-time poet

With the world's worst job

Rinsing dishes and a forgotten dream

Clock out

Clock in

Repeat. 

[jofayewrites]

𝙉𝙤 𝙜𝙧𝙖𝙫𝙚 𝙘𝙖𝙣 𝙝𝙤𝙡𝙙 𝙢𝙮 𝙗𝙤𝙙𝙮 𝙙𝙤𝙬𝙣, 𝙄’𝙡𝙡 𝙘𝙧𝙖𝙬𝙡 𝙝𝙤𝙢𝙚 𝙩𝙤 𝙝𝙚𝙧.

- Hozier, Work Song

“𝚁𝚘𝚜𝚎…”

“𝚃𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚊𝚖𝚎, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸’𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚜. 𝚃𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚎, 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝙸 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖. 𝚃𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚎.” 𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎. “𝙳𝚊𝚖𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚘𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚋𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍, 𝙰𝚍𝚊𝚖. 𝚃𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝—”

“𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚝!” 𝙸𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚜𝚑, 𝙸 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚑𝚎𝚛, 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚢 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚢 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚕𝚕. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍, 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚛. “𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚗𝚢𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎, 𝚁𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚎. 𝙸 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚗 𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚍𝚊𝚢, 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚘𝚗 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚜 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝. 𝙸 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚜 𝙸 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝙸 𝚊𝚖 𝚏𝚕𝚊𝚠𝚎𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙸 𝚊𝚖 𝚍𝚊𝚖𝚗𝚎𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚘𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝙸 𝚊𝚖 𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝙻𝚞𝚌𝚒𝚏𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚗.”

“𝙸𝚏 𝙸 𝚍𝚒𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝙸 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞,” 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍, “𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚜.”

[jofayewrites]

NO ANIMALS WERE HARMED IN THE MAKING OF THIS FILM

the terror of the snake in the original friday the 13th. shelley duvall in the exhausted haze of kubrick's vision. the suffering of creatures at the hands of men. who destroy for the sake of their art. blood not theirs does not come at a price. it is a natural phenomenon, the price of genius. at the end of it all we get our scream queens and the men get their oscars. they can heave their victory against their wives who do not cum. drink and belligerently create their next sequel. snort coke through their hundred dollar bills. they do not care about the blood of innocents. after all. isn't it natural for a woman to be covered in it?

[jofayewrites]

Afraid of the Dark

The ‘70 Chevelle is an omen of death.

With its maroon paint almost as dark as a hearse and bloody history, the car is as infamous as it is haunted… and its driver just as deadly. In the tape deck is a two sided cassette — an odyssey of terror. 

Featuring a tracklist including: queer longing, an autistic protagonist, Achillean romance, and a classic creature feature, AFRAID OF THE DARK imagines Buffy Summers (or Dean Winchester) as a gay man with a haunted past in classic horror noir.

Rated R for explicit sexual content, strong language, religious blasphemy, and horror violence. Parental Advisory: Explicit Content

[jofayewrites]

Adam’s Song

𝒲𝒽𝑒𝓃 𝒶 𝒹𝑒𝓈𝓅𝑒𝓇𝒶𝓉𝑒 𝓌𝑜𝓂𝒶𝓃 𝓂𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓈 𝒶 𝒹𝑒𝒶𝓁 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝒟𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽 𝓉𝑜 𝓈𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓂𝒾𝓃𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝒽𝓊𝓈𝒷𝒶𝓃𝒹, 𝓈𝒽𝑒 𝒹𝒾𝓈𝒸𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓈 𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝒻𝒶𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝓈𝑜𝓊𝓁𝓂𝒶𝓉𝑒 𝒾𝓈𝓃’𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓂𝒶𝓃 𝓈𝒽𝑒 𝒾𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝒹𝓈 𝓉𝑜 𝓈𝒶𝓋𝑒, 𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝒽𝑜𝓁𝒹𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒷𝒶𝓇𝑔𝒶𝒾𝓃.

[jofayewrites]

Little Bit About Me...

Josephine "Jo" Faye (they/them/theirs) is a non-binary, autistic writer and nocturnal slug. They studied Creative Writing & English Literature at Spalding University in Louisville, Kentucky before fleeing back to sunny California after graduation. Their literary copilot is a cat named Jane Austen and they have strong feelings about the Oxford comma.

My other haunt 👻 @fxckingjo

[jofayewrites]

the perris twins • the boy who would be king

[jofayewrites]

[jofayewrites]

THEY/THEM PRONOUNS

In a past life I was a man and I could write a poem about the gender euphoria that comes with boy’s jeans and an unbuttoned shirt and I could write poems about the way I’ve always loved androgyny and never understood why my parents hated my short hair and my brother’s clothes on me and how I always knew I was queer but never knew why I liked the idea of being a boy so much and how I like the softness of my curves and my breasts and have always wanted to be both but neither and how in so many variations of who I was and will be there will never be a consistent truth but this one and I could write a love letter to femininity and a love letter to masculinity and a love letter to the singular ‘they’ pronoun and how I will never ask to be called by it and I could write a poem about how being a writer is like being a god and gods are a genderless construct and exist beyond the confines of sex so why can’t I and I could write about men and women and the in-between and how I’ve always existed in the middle of things and I want to scream at the idea of labels and how it took years to call myself bisexual and now it takes decades to understand the nuances of my own gender and I hate the commitment that comes with defining myself the way the dictionary defines words and evolution is how this species came to be and I am only a person, not a deity, though when I make things I am close enough to be something greater than woman, than girl, than me.

[jofayewrites]

ON WRITER’S BLOCK

She stands in the void / call it freefall / call a spade a spade / call it even / there is empty space and the echo of stars / out of reach / no time in the vacuum / too much of it at once / God scavenged universe from nothing when She made it / she says / I am God / I will create / even in the echoes and resonances of what came before / the words are elusive / on the surface of the moon there is a blank page / I am ink / I am pen / I am useless if I am not making something / the rocket is out of fuel / we drift / the story lies beyond the milky way / if I could just find a means to get there / floating high above the world is easy / the landing requires true dexterity / when the ship crashes into the deep blue sea / the prose awaits / she drowns in it.

[jofayewrites]

FIRST KISS IN SLOW MOTION

we lay in your bed like unanswered questions / quotation marks without dialogue / curled around bodies / your skin so soft / the warmth of you / the summer dawn / holding the moment between the cracks in my fingers / if i slipped / i would fall / fall into you / into love / dealer’s choice / my tongue tripped first / our noses brushed / i would have begged to feel the seam of your mouth / tease your tongue / if i could have you forever / i would / my pulse thrummed / a butterfly’s wings for a beat / i didn’t know how to keep promises / or tell the truth / but for you i swore i’d learn / when our lips touched at last / a cacophony of sound went quiet / i had waited for you / to occupy a space / i did not know / was / empty.