I don’t know → Let’s f-ing go!

Send me your pages.
I read them.
Then we talk.

One hour private session, live on Zoom.

$500

BOOK MY SESSION

Details.

You’ve written your novel or memoir or—what is it?

You have no idea if it’s any good.

It’s nerve-wracking. Maybe it took years to write and—

Is it working? Would an agent keep reading? Who do I ask for advice without it being awkward? PANIC!

Been there.

Publishers, editors and agents have turned down my pages. A lot.

I’ve had to gut my pet projects down to the studs.

I’ve sought help.

One freelance editor told me, “Confusion is not suspense.” And the problem was suddenly obvious. I cut a prologue and the first chapter. It changed my entire manuscript.

One honest note from someone who’s been there can be worth more than a hundred friends who read your work and just tell you, “I loved it.”

I had great teachers.

I worked for Carrie Fisher.
I was a journalist and won two Emmy Awards.
I read and studied and asked questions.

I wrote my debut novel, A Star Is Bored, which The New York Times Book Review called “wildly funny.” Then I did it again with Big Gay Wedding.

Writing both was like going back to college.

The goods.

• Send up to 20 pages: opening chapters, a script, or the scene that keeps fighting you

• I read every word before we meet

• One hour on Zoom: what’s working, what’s not, and what to fix first

• Honest, friendly, not brutal (no red-pen massacre)

  ---

What people say.

“Wow - thank you! It was incredibly insightful, and honestly, I took away more in that hour than I have from ALL of the ‘How To’ writing books I’ve read over the years.”
—Michelle Heckman, attendee, Byron’s workshop at the Santa Barbara Literary Festival

“Equal parts brilliant writing mentor and supportive friend. Byron offers an exceptional, resource-rich starting point for any writer looking to level up.”
—Eduardo Santiago, Director of Member Engagement, Palm Springs Writers Guild

The fine print.

Register and I’ll email you to get your pages and pick a date and time.

Sorry, I can’t refer you to an agent or get you a book blurb.

Private. Your pages stay between us.

Reschedule free up to 48 hours before.

I don’t know → Let’s f-ing go!

Send me your pages.
I read them.
Then we talk.

One hour private session, live on Zoom.

$500

BOOK MY SESSION

BOOK MY SESSION

Meh → Momentum!

Just you and me.
Talking it through.
Finding a path forward.

One hour private session, live on Zoom.

$250

BOOK MY SESSION

Details.

You started a book. A passion. An idea scribbled on a napkin in 2019. Then it stopped.

What happened? Is it any good? Should I keep going? How do I get back into it?

Been there.

I’m besties with setbacks. I finish a draft of a novel and then come the notes.

I do a reading of a play and none of the jokes land.

I pitch an idea for remodeling our bedroom and my husband is meh. (This counts as art, right?)

It’s all the same injury: It’s no good. I’m no good. I don’t know what I’m doing. Nothing matters.

But I kept going thanks to a handful of tricks I use every time I’m in a rut.

I had great teachers.

I worked for Carrie Fisher.
I was a journalist and won two Emmy Awards.
I read and studied and asked questions.

I wrote my debut novel, A Star Is Bored, which The New York Times Book Review called “wildly funny.” Then I did it again with Big Gay Wedding.

Writing both was like going back to college.

The goods.

• One hour, just us, on Zoom (no audience, no judgment)

• We figure out what’s actually got you stuck (it’s usually not what you think)

• My hacks, matched to you and your project

• You leave with a real next step

  ---

What people say.

“Wow - thank you! It was incredibly insightful, and honestly, I took away more in that hour than I have from ALL of the ‘How To’ writing books I’ve read over the years.”
—Michelle Heckman, attendee, Byron’s workshop at the Santa Barbara Literary Festival

“Equal parts brilliant writing mentor and supportive friend. Byron offers an exceptional, resource-rich starting point for any writer looking to level up.”
—Eduardo Santiago, Director of Member Engagement, Palm Springs Writers Guild

The fine print.

Register and I’ll email you to pick a date and time.

Not therapy. Not life coaching. No worksheets.

Private. What’s shared stays between us.

Reschedule free up to 48 hours before.

Meh → Momentum!

Just you and me.
Talking it through.
Finding a path forward.

One hour private session, live on Zoom.

$250

BOOK MY SESSION

BOOK MY SESSION

WORKSHOP
Saturday, October 10, 10am PT
SOLD OUT

NEW DATE ADDED
Saturday, November 7, 10am PT:

One hour workshop, live on Zoom.

10 spots only, first come.

$89

Sign me up

Can’t make it November 7? Get first dibs on the next one ↓

Waitlist/next time

DETAILS

You want to write a book. It keeps not happening.

It’s overwhelming.

Can I even do it? Where to start? Who’d want to read it?

Been there.

When I sat down to write my first book, I didn’t know where to start. Memoir or novel? What are plot points? Do an outline—WHY? HOW? WHAT?

I had great teachers.

I worked for Carrie Fisher.

I was a journalist and won two Emmy Awards.

I read and studied and asked questions.

I wrote my debut novel, A Star Is Bored, which The New York Times Book Review called “wildly funny.” Then I did it again with Big Gay Wedding.

I’ve got you.

As I work on my next novel, I’m revisiting the tools and tricks that helped me get a two-book deal.

And now I wanna share those with you.

The goods.

• Memoir or novel? (how to decide)

• How to start (your logline is your beacon)

• How to write an outline (or whatever framing is right for you)

• How to make sentences jump off the page (it’s competitive out there)

• How to f-ing finish it (and have the confidence to start writing query letters)

• Q&A.

… and a lot of what I wish I knew before I wrote two books.

What people say.

“Wow - thank you! It was incredibly insightful, and honestly, I took away more in that hour than I have from ALL of the ‘How To’ writing books I’ve read over the years.”
—Michelle Heckman, attendee, Byron’s workshop at the Santa Barbara Literary Festival

"Equal parts brilliant writing mentor and supportive friend. Byron offers an exceptional, resource-rich starting point for any writer looking to level up."
—Eduardo Santiago, Director of Member Engagement, Palm Springs Writers Guild

WORKSHOP
Saturday, October 10, 10am PT
SOLD OUT

NEW DATE ADDED
Saturday, November 7, 10am PT:

One hour workshop, live on Zoom.

10 spots only, first come.

$89

Sign me up

Can’t make it November 7? Get first dibs on the next one ↓

Waitlist/next time

Finding the spark.

My writing career started in second grade with a book I made about He-Man.

I’ve now written for television news. I’ve written plays and novels and a Substack.

Still, sometimes, I can't find the spark.

I know I’m not alone.

Books that save me.

Certain books make me want to rush to the keyboard.

Some of these are unconventional. Some edgy. Only one is a huge commercial bestseller. But they all matter to me.

The first one listed below stays on my desk. I can open it to any yellowed, tattered page and find the most awe-inspiring sentences underlined.

The others light different fires in my heart.

Maybe they will for you, too.

Invisible Monsters by Chuck Palahniuk

Every time I read this it’s like the first time.

It’s twisty. It’s dark. It’s risky.

This novel exposes truths about life, identity, beauty. Every word makes me want to lock myself in a dark room and type out secrets.

PLOT: A model gets disfigured and finally becomes someone she likes.

A QUOTE I UNDERLINED: “Still spinning on the floor, the rifle points at me, points at Brandy. Another thing is no matter how much you think you love somebody, you’ll step back when the pool of their blood edges up too close.”

Invisible Monsters

Helen of Nowhere by Makenna Goodman

This! Book! Inspires! Me!

I’ve been in a reading funk. Lots of good stuff but nothing that said to me, “Hey! This is like what you want to do! Maybe you can do this, too! See! It’s right here!”

Then, this.

I actually started writing two separate novels after reading this. (Who knows where each will end up—but as far as I’m concerned, the magic happened!)

PLOT: A disgraced professor tours a house and hears about the mystifying woman who used to live there.

A QUOTE I UNDERLINED: “What you’re really saying to me is ‘I wish I could just express part of my emotions and just be like my wife.’ You want to be like her, and you want her. You’re telling me you don’t, but you do. You want your wife, badly!”

Helen of Nowhere

Coming up.

A book that reminds us what happens if we ignore our passions, one that inspires craftsmanship of words, and a novel I loved so much as an e-book I had to buy a hard copy to keep it near me.

Cult Members Only Past This Point

This part is not for the public—going deeper on life, craft, and mental health.

Pull up a chair and access all of my personal stories.

As a welcome gift, I’ll send you digital copies of my two Byronbooks: Everything Is Stupid Okay Fine I’ll Keep Going and Am I Severely Depressed or Do I Just Need Taco Bell.

“Every post from Byron feels like getting a message from the funniest person in the group chat… and that person also happens to be an extraordinary writer.”
—Maggie Downs, author of Be Back By Dinner

It costs less than one fancy cup of coffee each month. (Or a martini—I see you!)

Read more

Humor and heart.

Every now and then I stumble upon things that CHANGE ME.

And maybe they’ll change you, too—make you laugh or cry or see a new color for the first time.

Here’s some from this month including a vacation spot you must visit, a comedian I’m in love with, and a philosophy to guide your life choices.

Provincetown, MA

They call it Ptown.

It’s beauty. It’s magic.

A small, charming town with no shortage of gay-as-in-happy vibes (and gay-as-in-gay vibes haha).

I’m recently back from my second visit. Steven (husband) and I met up with some friends and had incredible food, ice cream cones (two in one day omg!), a sunset cruise, beach time, bike rides, naps, and sitting at bars gossiping about Albert Camus or which brands of loafers make us feel the most confident on a hard day.

I had extra time to read. I felt inspired. And I felt gratitude that I could take a vacation.

Hope you find some time to recharge this summer.

Maybe you can make it to Ptown.

Here are some pics from my trip:

Provincetown, MA

Zach Noe Towers

Comedian Zach Noe Towers is hilarious and magical. We’ve known each other for years but aside from his brilliant special, his podcast, and the many pods where he’s a guest or co-host, I’ve not had the chance to see him perform live in front of a giant audience—until recently.

He opened for comedian Jessica Kirson (also brilliant) at The Plaza Theatre in Palm Springs.

It’s rare that I belly laugh at comedy shows. Zach had me hurting.

Another interesting thing happened at his show—he had a drunk heckler. Shame on her! But good on him! I sometimes love when things like this happen because it shows you a kind of unscripted truth you’d not see otherwise.

Zach handled the heckler with humor and grace. He remained bright-eyed and decent and offered a masterclass on conflict management.

Humor and humanity—sign me up!

Find Zach on tour, follow him on socials, and listen to his podcasts:

Zach Noe Towers

Coming up.

Powerful life advice from a hot Instagram influencer, a mantra for hard days, and an actress who makes me love television.

Cult Members Only Past This Point

This part is not for the public—going deeper on life, craft, and mental health.

Pull up a chair and access my personal stories.

As a welcome gift, I’ll send you digital copies of my two Byronbooks: Everything Is Stupid Okay Fine I’ll Keep Going and Am I Severely Depressed or Do I Just Need Taco Bell.

“Every post from Byron feels like getting a message from the funniest person in the group chat… and that person also happens to be an extraordinary writer.”
—Maggie Downs, author of Be Back By Dinner

It costs less than one fancy cup of coffee each month. (Or a martini—I see you!)

Read more

Murder.

The vet tried to kill my dog.

Raindrop loves pills. Well, she loves the cookies that deliver the drugs.

But this week, the vet gave me the wrong meds.

Conflict.

The receptionist recognized me as Raindrop’s dad. Said Raindrop was one of her favorite pups. I picked up the refill of the pills I ordered.

Something told me to check the bottle as I walked to my car. The label was correct.

Something told me to look at the pills. They were a different size.

Something told me to go back inside. But I hate conflict.

Avoidance.

Maybe I was wrong. Maybe the pills just looked different this time.

I looked at the number on the pill.

I was in the parking lot. I had to find my glasses. I had to find good light.

I had to Google the number on the pill. But I had a bad phone signal.

I needed the password for the vet’s WiFi.

Surely this was unnecessary. Surely the vet wouldn’t make this kind of mistake.

The real problem.

I was getting angry. The inconvenience. The danger. The threat. Poor Raindrop.

But I was also focused.

I had a clear task. A clear purpose.

That felt like a relief compared to what was going on at home: writer’s block.

I had a lot on my plate. Writing a new play. Editing a new novel. New Byrontology post. And I couldn’t make progress on anything. My computer felt like a steel door and I didn’t have the right key.

The pill drama was a welcome distraction. And, it turns out, the exact thing that would eventually clear my creative block.

The fight.

I went inside the vet’s office. Pointed out the problem.

Raindrop’s dad became Raindrop’s protector.

The pharmacist was horrified, apologetic.

Big explanations and sincere apologies, recognizing the danger, the gravity.

I also recognized imperfection.

When someone else is imperfect, I can forgive it.

When I’m imperfect, when my work is not perfect, not so much.

Good company.

I tell people all the time: “I love imperfect books. I love imperfect podcasts. I love imperfect Instagram posts.”

But the rule didn’t apply to me. My work always has to be polished, considered, complete. To earn the right to exist.

But nothing is really perfect.

Spielberg re-edited E.T. The Extra-terrestrial. George Lucas re-edited the original Star Wars. Almost every author and creator I know wishes they could go back and make changes to their published—and sometimes celebrated—works.

Next step.

Is my job to create or to be perfect?

Keep going. Edit later.

When it comes to that steel door, turns out I don’t need the perfect key. I just need to stop waiting for one.

TL;DR

The vet made a mistake.

I’m easy on others but hard on myself—and sometimes that causes creative paralysis.

My job is to create, not to be perfect.

NEW HERE?

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IN THE NEXT BYRONTOLOGY

Five Things That Changed My Life This Month—including seeing a friend do something magical on stage. And I discovered my new favorite actor on TV—you should know about her, too—maybe you already do.

DIARY OF A SOMETIMES SAD GAY WRITER

In my diary entry this week, a lie came unraveled and made my latest novel feel more honest, enjoyable, and rich. Here’s what happened…

Read more

Happy birthday?

Crying on my birthday started at a young age. My most memorable meltdown was turning thirteen.

My parents were divorced and I was living with my dad. He could build a house from scratch or fix a dead car in an afternoon. But his best advice for a weeping son was a confused stare.

I was confused, too. What does this mean? Am I broken? How come it seems like everyone else can just eat the cake without the crying?

Helpless.

I didn’t have a therapist back then to talk about milestone distress. Didn’t have the internet to look up liminal anxiety. Didn’t have TikTok to get advice about mortality salience.

My only source of help was from my limited, fenced-in world of rural Louisiana where people didn’t seem to worry much past their own pastures.

My pasture felt small. Lonely.

Grow up.

My friends were part of the problem. They were flirting with dangerous things—girls and sports!

I didn’t want girls.

When my best friend said he was going to start playing basketball, I pulled the “B” encyclopedia off the shelf to learn the rules of the game and said to myself, “I guess it’s time to become an athlete.”

It didn’t take.

I cried at the call to “grow up.” I didn’t want to say goodbye to my He-Man action figures. I didn’t want to put play and imagination in the attic.

The escape.

Boy Scouts saved me, accidentally. I hated camping and learning about knots. But we took a field trip to a television news station in New Orleans and I saw a bigger life.

I aimed for it, every weepy birthday bringing me closer.

I went to college in New Orleans, got a job at that same television station, found my first therapist, found likeminded friends.

Still, sometimes, I cry on birthdays.

But this year was better.

I now understand what’s happening and how to fix it.

Read more

The heat.

My husband’s blood was boiling. Mine, too.

I was upset because I wanted to work on my new play but was having trouble forcing myself to be creative.

And then our thermostat broke.

Sweating.

Palm Springs can be perfect—palm trees, blue skies, and sunshine everyday. But in the summer, paradise has a price tag of 100 to 120 degrees. Our thermostat read 86. Then, 87.

The heat I put on myself to work on my play turned literal. And that’s when my husband’s temperature started going up, too.

We needed a new thermostat.

It was 4pm. I feared we wouldn’t survive the night—our bodies or our marriage. The business day wasn’t over—I had time to call an electrician or HVAC expert. Or—

“I can fix this,” I told Steven.

The repair.

I’ve proven myself to be handy. Or, at least, audacious. I grew up watching my dad fix things. He’d turn off the circuit breaker to change a ceiling fan. Or, he’d attach jumper cables to a car battery to get the engine started. I was always watching him, always ready for huge explosions that never came.

I’ve repaired our dishwasher. I’ve hung television sets. I’ve changed brake lights on my car.

How hard could it be to install a new thermostat?

Surely, that’s easier than working on my play.

Power loss.

The thermostat hit 88.

I did my research. I bought a new thermostat. I flipped the circuit breaker.

The clock passed 5pm. The thermostat passed 89 by the time I removed it.

The wires were a tangle. They didn’t match the instructions in our brand new “easy to install” Ecobee.

Tricky, just like writing.

Panic. I called the Ecobee help line. Closed. Our usual electrician didn’t answer. Our usual HVAC repair was closed with no emergency or after-hours number.

I could see the future. 90 degrees, then 102, then Steven and me trying to sleep in flop sweat and rage.

Getting hotter.

Steven wasn’t the only one who’d suffer for my failure to fix the thermostat.

Our friends Jeffrey and Justin were arriving to play the board game Wingspan with us. No way they’d sit in this hot house.

I was dialing other electricians and HVAC companies when our friends walked in. I said, “I’m in trouble.”

The drama would soon offer a big lesson on DIY projects, and a big breakthrough on my creative process.

Read more

Dying.

He reached for his last morning sunrise.

His lower body paralyzed, dirty, wet from the sprinklers. He tried to drag himself across my backyard, back to before, when he was healthy, fast, feared.

He didn’t look anything like the propaganda on pest control trucks. Soft gray fur—the same shade as our dog, Raindrop.

Petite. Pink paws. Teeny claws, all the details they’d include in a Pixar movie.

“Oh, God,” I said. Way better than calling him a rat.

Still dying.

There was some blood. But Google said he was probably poisoned. That he wouldn’t live much longer.

I couldn’t leave him in the backyard, my dogs prowling nearby, him pawing at nowhere.

I crumpled some paper towels and lined the inside of an old Amazon box. I gently shoveled him inside. His whiskers twitched. He pushed and pulled at breath.

I put him in a safe, shady corner of the yard. I covered him with fabric we use to protect plants from the sun.

He scratched at the cardboard.

“It’ll be okay,” I told him.

The plan.

I wondered if this is what I would want for myself—to let my mortal machine run its course in safety and shade of a sunny morning.

I’ve heard of putting a critter out of its misery. But, yikes. Google said letting him pass on in the shade is better than how most people might treat him.

I’d give him time to pass away in peace. Then I’d toss the Amazon box. And it was trash day, so that was convenient.

I’d work the day away, collect him, take the trash out, and go to a special screening of the RuPaul movie Stop That Train—a friend of mine was doing a Q&A.

The problem.

When it was time to end the day, get ready for the screening, I went to the backyard, to the box.

My little gray friend was still pawing. Still breathing. Looking at me, wiggling those cute ears.

“Goddammit!” I said. Then, “Sorry. I know this is your life. I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at the situation.”

Read more

Victory.

It was one of those writing days that make me love being alive.

I sat at my desk in the morning with a mug of hot coffee and suddenly it was 7 p.m.

I forgot to eat. I forgot to feel insecure.

I finished a draft of a new play and sent it to a collaborator for notes.

Defeat.

The note was: This is off.

Oh.

Oh no.

The note was smart, generous, correct. Which is the best kind, and the most annoying kind.

I could see it instantly. I wrote a solid piece. A solid first draft. But it was absolutely not the story I really wanted to tell.

I built the wrong house for the moment. Okay. Time to rewrite.

Then a force field went up around my desk.

No way.

I’m not being dramatic (I’m being a little dramatic), but I could not get my butt back in that chair.

I tried everything except sitting down.

I even drove to Los Angeles for a He-Man event with my friend Erin—our friend Mackenzi Lee wrote a great novel about Teela from the Masters of the Universe movie—and on the drive, ideas came. Good ones! Real solutions!

Nope.

I got home and approached my desk and the force field was humming back at me: Nah. Nope. Get out of here.

This went on for days.

The ideas were in my head. The chair was right there. And the distance between them might as well have been from here to Eternia (He-Man’s home planet, look it up).

While in LA, I also saw a friend who talked about ADHD. And because my phone listens to everything (hi, phone), my TikTok algorithm started feeding me ADHD hacks.

Hacks.

One of the hacks stopped my scroll: Make your desk a happy place.

I looked at my desk. It was a monument to obligation. To-do lists facing me like a firing squad. Every visible object whispering you’re behind and will never catch up.

No wonder some animal part of my brain had decided this was not a friendly place.

So I rearranged it.

I moved the to-do lists so they’re not in my face. I pulled my favorite childhood He-Man action figures from my closet and put them on my desk—my new coworkers. I even hung my old He-Man castle on my wall. (Pending husband’s approval.)

Breakthrough.

The force field weakened.

I sat.

I looked at my little plastic friends.

I smiled.

I was in the seat. And getting to work didn’t feel as impossible.

I learned some other helpful hacks.

Here are five things that pulled me out of the ditch this time.

Maybe they’ll help you, too.

Read more

The trigger.

A guy I kinda know sold a work of art for a lot of money.

He was all over newspapers and magazines and, the worst, my Instagram feed.

I felt deep, primal jealousy.

I’ve felt it before. With friends, colleagues, and even my husband.

The spiral.

When I saw my friend’s success, my inner toddler was screaming, “I want that!”

I felt shame for feeling jealous. I felt anger for feeling shame for feeling jealous. I felt sad for feeling anger for feeling shame for feeling jealous.

Then, my sometimes secret weapon: I got curious.

Human and Ancient

Maybe it’s human and ancient to feel jealous. Maybe it used to help us monitor our standing in the tribe.

And our modern tribe—society—seems to value money and recognition.

Then I bought a can of low-sodium black beans at Ralph’s and had an epiphany.

Read more

Danger

He was drowning.

The weight of a paperclip. Legs going in every direction, all six of them.

I offered my finger. He held. I carried him from the pool to the grass and set him down and said, “Have a good life, friend.”

He’s not the first June bug I’ve plucked from my swimming pool. But he’s the first to save me back.

Worthlessness

That night, I’d been struggling writing this very post.

A small thing. That felt like a huge thing.

I couldn’t find the right clump of pixels to tap onto this screen. Every idea felt wrong. Every draft hollow.

I sat in my office—the one I designed with Byrontology in mind, carefully mismatched chairs, a sturdy table, a room to say something meaningful happens here.

And nothing was happening but my computer laughing at me.

I felt worthless.

I was drowning.

Illusion

I stepped outside. Stared at my office. Outside looking in.

Embarrassed. Too hard on myself for not getting the job done. Too hard on myself for being too hard on myself.

June bugs were throwing themselves at lights. And at least one June bug threw himself into the swimming pool.

Maybe he was also chasing a light. A reflection of a light. Chasing an illusion.

Drowning for real. Little legs getting no traction. Spinning in circles.

I saved him. And myself.

Read more

Spitballs are shockingly difficult to get out of your hair.

I can't recall a thing about high school algebra. But I can tell you about the spitballs Scott launched at me from the back seat of the bus.

I can tell you about empty, dirty candy wrappers shoved into the slots of my locker.

And spending the long lunch break alone in the school library just to feel peace.

I had one true friend. Loneliness.

I daydreamed about how things would be different in college.

And they were.

Higher Education

In college, no spitballs.

Extracurricular activities didn’t involve sweating.

I joined a club that planned campus lectures. A few fellow members became my close friends.

Peace? I found it. For a while.

The Shock

My new friends all lived together in the female dorm, so I’d linger outside their building and leave messages on all three answering machines.

When’s breakfast?
When’s lunch?
When’s dinner?
What are we doing tonight?
What are we doing this weekend?

In college, I didn’t eat alone anymore.

Until one day I asked what time we were going for chicken tenders and fries.

Silence.

One of my friends said, “Um.”

She said, “The thing is—”

And then she said, “You’re needy.”

Needy

I’d never heard the word before. But I didn’t need to look it up.

I got my chicken tenders and fries in a Styrofoam container. I took it to my dorm room ate alone that day.

And the next. And the next.

My friend’s comment didn’t feel mean. It felt true.

It rested comfortably beside other things I hated about myself. Like being nerdy. Like being gay.

But those things had less sting in college. Nerdiness was encouraged. Will & Grace was a hit.

But neediness didn’t have such great PR.

Empty, Abandoned, Useless

I tried to be less of a problem.

I stopped asking so many questions.
Stopped lingering outside their dorm.
Stopped assuming I was invited.

On endlessly open nights, I’d walk the campus.

Loyola New Orleans was quiet in a way that felt staged, like a movie set after hours, my own drama.

Empty streetcars toiled along under oak trees on St. Charles Avenue.

Academic buildings had lights on so you could see they were empty, abandoned, useless.

On those nights, all the learning was happening outside, the lessons of my own footsteps. Wondering if my friends were at parties. Wondering if they noticed I wasn’t there.

I turned to my old friend from high school. Loneliness.

Loneliness

He was available. Affable. Had a sense of humor about my Styrofoam dinners. “Where’s mine?” he’d ask.

But I noticed something else. He sure was needy.

My friend Loneliness was always around. He wanted so much of my time. To constantly make himself known. To nag about how to spend each long, solitary hour.

I started to wish my friend Loneliness would branch out. Not be so reliant on me. Why couldn’t he make other friends?

I imagined telling him, “You’re needy.”

I’d say, “I can’t shake you.”

I’d ask, “Why does your attention seem intense, heavy, desperate? Like your life depends on being with others? Like your safety depends on it?”

Suddenly, Loneliness reminded me of something. And it shook me. And it healed me.

CULT MEMBERS ONLY

Deeper confessions, revelations, and resolutions not for public.

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The goods:

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• I like being a patron of the arts. This is art, right? I’m sure Byron appreciates it. (HE DOES. SO MUCH. I’LL REMEMBER THIS. THANK YOU!)

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“Life got ya down? Convert to Byrontology! Sharp writing + poignant insights + Carrie Fisher stories. What’s not to love?”
—Dan Hass, SOS: Satire or Something

“Byron Lane has one of my favorite brains on the planet. I love his brand of humor and storytelling. I always learn something from the Study of Byron!”
—Evan Roberts, Don’t Be Precious, Darling

“Every post from Byron feels like getting a message from the funniest person in the group chat ... and that person also happens to be an extraordinary writer.”
—Maggie Downs, Be Back By Dinner

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Not numb out. Not scroll.

Just… go somewhere.

Feel something. Be inside a story. Care about people I’ve never met.

These are the podcasts I go to.

The first one pulls me in every time. Truly one of the best writers/storytellers I’ve ever heard.

The others are like close friends I can turn to when I need a mood change.

Heavyweight

This is the one I come back to most.

Masterful storytelling about people revisiting something unresolved or something small that somehow isn’t small.

It’s funny. Awkward. Deeply human.

And then it hits you.

This one pulls me out of my life and into someone else’s.

I’ve linked to one of my favorite episodes.

Heavyweight

This Is Love

This one feels like falling in love with the world again.

The stories are quiet. Tender. Sometimes unexpected.

You don’t see where they’re going. You don’t want them to end.

I’ve linked to one of my favorite episodes.

This is Love

Coming up.

Podcasts for when you want to get lost in a warm adventure, laugh and feel human, or go on a full and rich journey.

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The start.

Novels, films, television shows, and even gossip between friends have a simple, foolproof structure.

I don’t reinvent the wheel.

The outline.

You’ve heard of beginning, middle, end.

Master storytellers can expand or manipulate that structure.

That’s where I start.

Figuring out that map.

Big picture.

I imagine the big picture before I get into the details.

It can—and certainly will—change later.

For example, often, I’m in the middle of a story, make a discovery, and pivot.

Sometimes it’s a major plot point. Sometimes it’s changing a character’s name. Sometimes it’s finding the title.

In A Star Is Bored, I came up with the title when I was almost finished the first draft, so I went back and elevated the bits about the movie star’s boredom to make the theme pop.

Coming up.

How to write an outline. And where you can reach out to me to ask any questions.

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Where it started.

It was the day Carrie Fisher died.

I had been her assistant years earlier.

People I barely knew were messaging me about the news.

That night, I was crying in my bathtub and posted a note on Facebook.

Maybe I should write more.

My Facebook post went viral and the comments were overwhelming.

I wondered if I should write more about the job that helped me out of depression, had me laughing every day, and taught me so much about love, life, and friendship.

Carrie used to tell me, “Take your broken heart and go make art.”

So I did.

Coming up.

Here’s how I wrote my manuscript and found an agent.

Plus, things that actually helped along the way.

And how you can contact me and ask me your questions about publishing and creativity.

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Scary.

Our dog Shirley is dying—in my mind.

She’s perfectly healthy according to the vet.

According to x-rays and bloodwork and diplomas.

But I have a feeling.

The problem.

We adopted Shirley when she was three years old because our energetic puppy, Raindrop, seemed to need a playmate.

Shirley was the shelter’s go-to for training and calming other dogs.

Soon, she was training all of us on matters of love and life.

There was extortion. There was crying.

Coming up.

Shirley worries me. And teaches me lessons on rolling over, sitting, and staying in the moment.

Cult Members Only Past This Point

This part is not for the public—going deeper on life, craft, and mental health.

Pull up a chair and access my personal stories.

As a welcome gift, I’ll send you digital copies of my two Byronbooks: Everything Is Stupid Okay Fine I’ll Keep Going and Am I Severely Depressed or Do I Just Need Taco Bell.

“Every post from Byron feels like getting a message from the funniest person in the group chat… and that person also happens to be an extraordinary writer.”
—Maggie Downs, author of Be Back By Dinner

It costs less than one fancy cup of coffee each month. (Or a martini—I see you!)

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I think.

Here are postcards from my marriage.

Five years of marriage and something is off. Five years, I think—Steven keeps track of dates. I’m bad at math and directions and seasons and intersections and daylight savings and remembering to turn off the fan in our bedroom. Our marriage doesn’t feel like ones from TV or movies.

When nothing else helps,
I made something you can hold.

See it here.

I never dated anyone seriously before him. I’d go two weeks, then get bored. A therapist asked if I wanted a clown or a boyfriend. I met Steven in 2013 (I think—he’d know). We laughed constantly. At words like grundle. At stupid dog videos. At each other. I told that therapist I found both.

One night I was exhausted, but we were supposed to have a date. I canceled last minute and assumed he’d fuss like others had. Instead, he said, “No problem. I’m here to make your life better, not more stressful.” I moved in with him.

We wanted careers as artists. We stayed up late writing, then reading each other’s work, saying it’s great, keep going! When one lost hope, the other took the torch, said this will be funny one day, and we’d laugh about that. I wasn’t thinking 10 years ahead. I just wanted another hour.

I wanted his family to love me. I worried about my clothes, jokes, hair. I asked him, what if your nieces and nephew think I’m the clown in our relationship? He said “they do and that’s what they love about you.” And that made me smile. A big red clown smile. Matched his.

Something is off. The word marriage isn’t enough. For our art. For our dogs Raindrop and Shirley and Belle. For nighthawks eating bugs over the pool. For the backyard gopher we named Wellington. For how he can’t load the dishwasher correctly. For when I can’t remember how many years. For another hour. Love, B

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When nothing else helps,
I made something you can hold.

See it here.