Gray

Me, the writer, not the character

My stories are sometimes fiction, always true.

I’m not the Gray or Grace in these stories.
But we’ve walked a lot of the same roads.
Heard a lot of the same songs.
Cried over a lot of the same things.

For a long time, I lived mostly in my head.
These days, I write it out.

When I started writing, I chose the name Gray because that’s how I felt. Also, I found out my father used the same name when he wanted to go incognito, which I didn’t realize until much later—and which still feels… significant in ways I’m not done understanding.

I’ve made some friends here on The Porch. They don’t expect me to be small. They don’t expect me to be someone I’m not. In fact, they like the real real me—which I don’t always know what to do with. Plus, they let me drive. So I’m staying.

In the beginning my stories started out alongside mixtapes, because every good recipe, every road trip, and every bad day laid out on cold tile deserves a soundtrack. There’s almost always a song playing. I wake up with one in my head. I fall asleep with another humming in my ear.

I’m not sure if every story here will have a mixtape—but you can see where it all started over at Turtle Meat Mixtapes.

Here’s what you will find here:
Run-on sentences and Oxford commas used with reckless abandon.
Southern colloquialisms—a few I made up myself.
A southern goth feel, but softer around the edges.
A girl figuring out if she really is too late. Or if she landed here right on time.

I’ve always known the phrase you can’t go home again is true, because I never really had one. But I know you can set up house just about anywhere.

I like it here on The Porch. It’s cozy and warm and maybe feels like it maybe could be home. No performances. Just something true.

Maybe you will like it too.

You can find my stories here.
Or you can start with one of these:

You do not want to miss how it all began.