Tag: memoir

You Shouldn’t Have to Chase Me Around the Internet

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The other day, my editor said something that stuck with me.

She wanted to be able to see everything in one place.

At first, my brain immediately went to organization. The Mangus Khan Universe has grown considerably over the years. Memoirs of Madness is here. The Narrative Forge has become the home for much of my fiction. Khan Graphix is taking shape as a home for finished visual work and photography. House of Tunage has its own purpose. And there are other strange rooms scattered throughout this increasingly questionable establishment.

My first instinct was to defend the structure.

Everything has a reason for being where it is.

Then I realized she wasn’t really talking about structure.

She was talking about convenience.

You shouldn’t have to remember five websites, three series names, two secret handshakes, and the location of a hidden door behind a questionable-looking bookcase just to figure out what I’ve been creating.

That’s especially important because many of you don’t come here for one particular thing.

Some of you read the fiction. Some come for the essays. Some enjoy the photographs and artwork. Some apparently tolerate my sense of humor. A few of you have been hanging around long enough that I’m beginning to question your judgment.

And some of you recently told me that the mixture itself is part of what you enjoy.

That matters.

So I’ve been thinking differently about Memoirs of Madness.

I don’t want to cram everything I create onto this site. Some work needs room of its own. A long-running fiction series should have a place where someone can disappear into the story without digging through my latest philosophical argument with a coffee cup. A collection of photographs deserves to be experienced as a collection. Music deserves its own room to make noise.

But perhaps MoM can be the place where you can see what’s happening everywhere else.

When something new appears in The Narrative Forge, I’ll let you know here.

When a new collection is finished for Khan Graphix, I’ll open a window here.

When something interesting crawls out of another corner of the MKU, you’ll probably hear about it here first.

You can follow those doors if something interests you.

Or you can stay right here.

There will still be essays, questions, stories, photographs, experiments, occasional nonsense, and whatever else wanders through my head before I’ve had enough coffee to stop it.

I’m not interested in turning this place into a traffic interchange where every post screams CLICK HERE.

I want something simpler.

I want MoM to remain what it has somehow become over the years: the place where we meet.

The rest of the MKU can have its different rooms.

Memoirs of Madness can keep the porch light on.

Tell Yourself Whatever You Need To

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Most people think I’m loud — the kind of person who fills a room just by showing up. The one cracking jokes, telling stories, holding court like I was born to. I let them believe it. It keeps things easier, smoother. But truthfully, I’m an introvert in disguise — a quiet man who learned that silence makes people nervous.

I’ve actually heard folks say they were scared of me when I didn’t talk. Something about my face, maybe — the way it rests heavy, unreadable, like I’m thinking too much or judging too hard. I guess that’s my curse: I look like trouble when I’m just tired.

So I talk. Even when I don’t want to. Even when the words feel like sand in my mouth. I talk to make other people comfortable, to smooth over the awkwardness that silence seems to bring. I know that probably sounds weak, but it helps things along. It makes the day move easier. And sometimes, pretending to be the loud one is less exhausting than explaining why I’m quiet.

When I worked in offices, coworkers would say things like, “Are you judging me?” or “You’re judging me right now, aren’t you?” or “You look like you’re about to call me a name.” I’d laugh it off, but inside, I wasn’t judging anyone. I was probably thinking about a story idea, or how lunch wasn’t sitting right, or why the hell the printer only jammed when I used it. But try explaining that without sounding like a weirdo. It’s easier just to say something funny, make them laugh, keep the peace.

Even my ex used to tell me, “Let me know before you go dark.” She meant the quiet spells — those stretches when I’d retreat into my head, writing or reading or just not talking. To her, silence felt like absence, like a door closed without warning. But for me, it was never about her. It was how I reset. I don’t disappear out of anger; I disappear to breathe. But try convincing someone of that when they’ve been taught that noise means love.

The truth is, I can go days without saying a word and feel completely fine. The quiet doesn’t scare me — it steadies me. It’s where I make sense of things. Where I untangle the noise I swallowed all week. My desk becomes a refuge. A book, a pen, and a cup of cooling coffee are enough to rebuild the parts I’ve spent too long bending out of shape for other people’s peace.

But silence has its own cost. You start to wonder if anyone ever really knew you beneath the performance. If they’d still come around if you stopped making it easy for them. If they’d sit in the quiet long enough to realize you’re not angry — just tired of having to explain your existence.

So yeah, I’m loud. But not because I love attention. I’m loud because silence unsettles people, and I’ve spent too many years trying not to be someone’s reason for discomfort. Maybe that’s my weakness. Or maybe it’s another kind of grace — learning to speak, even when the world hasn’t earned your voice.

Before I go dark.

Daily writing prompt
What’s something most people don’t know about you?
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