Prosebuds (Issue 3: Sept. 2025)

Vulnerability + more juicy "Falling from the Inside" + OG Prosebud Meg Mateo!

Note: 🎧 For accessibility, I provide a reading of every Prosebuds issue audiobook-style. Listen by clicking the play button on the above “Article Voiceover” tab.

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Dear ‘buds,

This summer my Audible Original play The 126-Year-Old Artist turned two years old. I missed the true anniversary, but a recent listener and new acquaintance reminded me (Thank you, Will!) and inspired this vulnerable revamped intro.

The original cover art for The 126-Year-Old Artist, the mint and orange title displayed on a bold pink-red canvas with a Dominican-American woman (Yésica) staring at the piece beside a gallery bench. You can listen to the audio play on the Audible platform, currently free on Audible Plus.

Every time I revisit the project, I think about how much I loved working on it—the rare, blessed open commission with a production on the other side (IYKYK). During the height of the pandemic when work was especially scarce, the commission felt like the greatest blessing imaginable. And then, the dear, brilliant Emilia LaPenta (former producer at Audible and forever dramaturg extraordinaire, for those who don’t know) said to me: write about whatever you want. (And she really meant it!)

I wish for more of that—for all writers. I realize when money factors into art, things get complicated. So many of my fellow television writers and screenwriters (not to mention all the other crew and creatives) have faced major industry upset post 2023 strike and MBA negotiation. I’ve seen many talented people forced to step away—some temporarily, some in a more permanent fashion—to navigate different pathways to make their livings.

I’ve actively struggled with the balance of day job versus writing life for my entire career, and I know I’m not alone. I’ve worked in the the theater, the foundation world, arts admin, education, television, and beyond—and TBA what’s next. I’ll never forget the wonderful Madhuri Shekar (playwright, screenwriter, and hopefully future prosebud) asking me when we first met at the Alliance/Kendeda Festival in 2014 how I made my living, how I made it work. She wanted to compare notes, and I LOVED that she was unafraid to go there.

Not too long ago, the novelist and short story writer Marie-Helene Bertino wrote on social media about needing to return to retail work in her thirties to make ends meet. I found her post (see below) especially meaningful:

A post from Marie-Helene Bertino’s Instagram page. The author, a White woman in a jean jacket with dark, straight hair and a pink beanie, is pictured in a bookstore holding two of her books, Exit Zero and Beautyland, to her chin.

This time in my life has reminded me that the writing remains a gift, whether or not there is a paycheck on the other side. I often recall my graduate school professor and mentor, the playwright Charles “Chuck” Mee, telling us, his workshop: “do what you love and fuck the rest.” That being said, I do deeply believe that all artists should be paid for our time and work whenever possible, even if the amount is purely a gesture. I turned down a book “deal” offering a nonexistent advance for a collection of my hybrid/creative nonfiction once for this very reason. It was a very difficult decision, but I do think I made the right choice. I listened to my deepest instinct and hopefully my future books will be better because of it.

This month’s issue is dedicated to all the prosebuds out there, writing despite it all, pursuing the work, no matter what.

Happy Labor Day, happy September, and thanks for reading—as always.

xCQ

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CQ Serialized Fiction | Falling From the Inside: Chapter 3

A beloved Prosebuds subscriber (Hi, Kathy!) mentioned that she felt the first and second chapters of Falling from the Inside were very different! Not a judgement call, but a question mark—which I love. Beyond pure inspiration, I’ve been (very) loosely following the structure of Dickens’ A Christmas Carol for this serialized adventure. In other words, Romero’s ghost is this story’s equivalent of the Marley visitation, and last month’s chapter, a flashback to Laura’s first date with Marie, my own take on a “ghost of Christmas past,” so to speak. So, this month: on with the present!

Laura isn’t quite Scrooge, but clearly Falling from the Inside is a different sort of tale altogether. Real talk, though: there has to be some fan fic out there where Scrooge and Marley were a thing, right? I’m not saying Romero and Laura were involved, but there’s definitely more to that story, as I’m sure you perceptive readers have already surmised...

Stay tuned, and in the meantime, enjoy September’s chapter. Comment, like, and/or share, if you please! If you need to catch up on the the last two installments, feel free to peek into the archive.

An image from TripAdvisor (Thanks, Allen21096!) of the interior of the lesser-known (and personally beloved) Café du Monde on Williams Boulevard in Kenner. Tile floor, several rows of 50s-style black leather chairs surrounding classic round marble-topped tables with sugar containers and napkin dispensers on each. (You’ll get this reference soon… )

Chapter 3: A Trip to “Little Honduras”

Even in the perfect darkness of their blackout-curtained bedroom, Laura couldn’t sleep. She sat up in bed, unsettled, replaying the scene with Romero’s ghost over and over in her mind. Mark stirred at the gentle chime of his phone alarm and reached for Laura’s arm. The man had a real superpower for falling asleep—and staying asleep—under any circumstances. She envied this about him, especially now.

“I saw Romero,” Laura told Mark, without preamble, as he groaned out of bed and ambled toward their ensuite bathroom.

Eyes sleepy, Mark paused in the doorframe. “Wait. What?”

“Romero. Or I guess his ghost? He might be haunting me, or something…” At this, Mark only nodded once, then again and again—attempting to process as he fully woke up, she assumed. Most mornings he wasn’t fully human until at least half an hour post wake-up—but this couldn’t wait.

“Do you believe me?” Laura asked. Another long pause followed. She tried to imagine what she’d say to him if the situation were reversed. She liked to think she’d be kind, but she’d definitely question his sanity—after she laughed and presumed the whole thing to be a bad joke or a dream first. But this wasn’t a joke or a dream—she’d seen Edwin Romero, she knew it on some fundamental level. “I’m assuming he hasn’t appeared to you…?”

“No, he hasn’t,” Mark said, baffled, as he ran his hand through his still-full head of hair and disappeared into the bathroom. Laura listened to the sound of the shower tapping against tile for a moment before he called back: “We don’t even know for sure he’s dead.”

His response irritated her. “Mark, come on.” Who was he kidding? Of course, they knew Romero was dead. Why else would he be unaccounted for? He always showed. She followed Mark into the bathroom where he’d already jumped into the shower, steam rising and clouding her own image on the large vanity mirror. Was he avoiding her? Hiding something? Why? “Do you know something I don’t?” She asked him, point blank.

“No, of course not,” Mark said, rubbing a spot on the glass shower door to see her through. “You haven’t slept, L. Why don’t you take the day off?” He added gently, before she had the time to press him further. The idea of a “day off” seemed impossible right now, though not unappealing. She couldn’t remember the last time she took a day off from Girot Construction beyond her maternity leave—which anyone with children knew wasn’t really time off at all.

“OK, but it’s my day,” Laura relented. “I’ll take the boys in.” She wanted to ask more questions, but instead, exhausted, she took a seat on the closed toilet seat, her entire body heavy. Soon their sons would be up and zooming through the house. She needed coffee and sleep.

*

After dropping her boys off at school and stopping to re-fill her extra-large thermos with more coffee, Laura found herself turning from Carrollton onto the I-10 headed west. She rarely journeyed out to this corner of Jefferson Parish beyond visits to her parents or rides to the airport. On this steamy fall morning, the drive down Williams Boulevard felt like a trip back in time, despite her intended destination.

From a distance, the pale blue house looked about the same as its many ranch style counterparts down the block. If it hadn’t been for the GPS announcing her arrival, she might have missed it. Upon her first roll past—slow, but not so slow as to cause unwanted attention—she noticed a small sun-bleached statue of Our Lady and an assortment of chairs on the patio out front. The house next door easily overshadowed the place with its excessive Halloween decorations, including a blinding amount of faux spider web and an oversized, half-deflated cartoon witch.

Laura turned around at the end of the block, doubled back, and parked several houses away, like some cheap private investigator in a bad movie. What on Earth was she doing? She thought to herself. Why had she come here? What did she expect to gain? Did she actually plan to ring the doorbell and offer condolences to Romero’s family—whom she’d never met—prior to any official announcement of his death? As of yet, authorities had only identified one deceased and 30 injured with two more missing, one being him. She doubted the Romeros wanted to see her. Legally, the whole situation was a nightmare—she shouldn’t be here. An outright admission of guilt. And yet, she couldn’t stop thinking about the man, his ghost, and what he’d said to her.

That’s when she saw her approaching the door of the pale blue house. Marie. Laura felt her face go hot, her insides twist. What was she doing here? Still wearing scrubs, holding white paper bags in her arms. Beignets. From the Kenner Café du Monde, no doubt. Thankfully Marie hadn’t noticed Laura’s car, a fairly average gray SUV, idling nearby. Still, she turned off the engine and slouched into her seat.

Laura hadn’t seen Marie since they decided to “cool things off,” to use Marie’s words. Her best friend Sophie had been right about everything—of course she had. How could someone not fall in love with Marie Etienne? In the last couple of weeks, Laura debated texting her a thousand times. She missed her, more than she cared to admit. In the wake of the collapse, she half-expected Marie’s name to pop up on her phone—a call, a text, something. But no, nothing. And now, here she was. It almost felt like some kind of a strange sign. A sign she needed.

Suddenly, the front door of the house opened. A short, dark ponytailed woman with an infant in her arms answered. Balancing the baby, she kissed Marie on the cheek and quickly invited her inside. The front door shut as drops fell lightly on the windows of Laura’s car.

Laura straightened herself and re-fastened her seatbelt. This was a mistake. She had to get out of here. Just then, her phone buzzed from its perch on the dash. A text message from Sophie with a video link below. She quickly removed the phone from its stand, releasing the charger.

Have you seen this video? It’s all over the news. Call me when you can.

Laura pressed the link with her thumb, bracing herself.

This 90s era Map Quest image with questionable color palette gives a very basic sense of the Greater New Orleans area (sorry North Shore), including portions of Jefferson Parish, like Metairie and Kenner— for folks who are not so familiar with the city. (Thanks, U.S. District Court House website.)

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Featured Prosebud | Meg Mateo

I’m thrilled to introduce this month’s prosebud, one of the OG prosebuds from my wonderful writers group who I shouted out in our first issue: the multi-genre, multi-talented Meg Mateo.

I met Meg through our mutual prosebud, Emily Hashimoto, and I’ve had the distinct pleasure of getting to read Meg’s brilliant work in multiple forms over the last two years. When I tell you I am still thinking about her novel-in-progress—an incredible Bridgerton meets Pachinko-esque Filipino historical saga that explores cross cultural nuances with aplomb, not to mention features a heart-stopping love story. I read the first two parts of her manuscript this past Spring in group, and I’m beyond eager to receive part three!

Pictured in shadow against a factory-esque background, Meg Mateo is a Filipino American woman with a closed-lipped smile and wavy salt and pepper hair past her shoulders. She leans cross-armed into a railing and wears a green-grey sleeveless top and gold hoop earrings. (Photograph by Joel Sedak)

Meg Mateo was previously an editorial director at Penguin Random House. She’s currently a publishing consultant, helping book publishers to develop and expand their lists. She has an expansive creative background as an author, journalist, art director, graphic designer, illustrator, and stylist. The author of seven nonfiction titles, Meg's writing practice is now focused on fiction and screenwriting.

(ROSE) What's something that's going particularly great with your writing and/or writing process right now?

MM: Music! Anthony Doerr once said that when we’re working on a project we should never let the paint fully dry because once it dries it’s much harder to come back to it. Over the past few months, I’ve been building a playlist inspired by my characters’ emotions and storylines. I listen to the playlist every day to stay emotionally connected to them. It’s especially important on the days when I don’t have time to write.

(THORN) What's something that's especially shitty about your writing and/or writing process right now?

MM: How long it’s taking to finish this novel. I’m on year six because I’ve let the paint dry far too many times!

(STEM) Name a writer/artist/work that changed your life or sustains you.

MM: I wasn’t much of a reader when I was young. The first book I truly connected with was Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein when I was 17. A couple years later, I read Dogeaters by Jessica Hagedorn. She created such vivid characters and a rollercoaster story (set in 1950s Philippines) with a writing style and voice that's so bold and unafraid.

The cover of Dogeaters by Jessica Hagedorn, finalist for the 1990 National Book Award (10/10 recommend, too—thank you, Ricky Maldonado). Beneath the thin orange-lettered title lines is a collage of banana trees, shelves of lush fruit, an altar with a statue of Our Lady, a black and white photo of a couple, a sepia-tone Filipina girl in a Victorian era dress, and a woman smoking a cigarette.