Kyle A. Massa

I Busted My Website

July 19, 2026 / / 0 Comments

I busted my website
like pottery jostled from a countertop.
There’s only one word for the occasion
and that word is this:

Oops.

One moment, all was functional.
The next, kaput.
I probably should’ve backed it up,
but the only thing I back up
is my azz.

So I tried repairing it myself,
only I sliced my fingers on all the jagged shapes,
and then I felt faint and feeble,
so I called customer support.

John answered.
“Hi John,” I said. “I just busted my website.
Can you fix it?”

Turns out John was an AI. So I asked for a human,
and when I got my human—

[Holding…holding…holding…]

—his name was also John.

“Hi John,” I repeated.
And yada yada yada.

John put me back on hold while he
glued together the shards of my site.
I sat there waiting,
answering emails,
wondering why a domain can be so fragile.

“It’s fixed,” said John.

“Thank you,” said I.

“You have a nice day now,” said John.

And I did. Until I check my website,
and noticed some cracks,
and it all fell apart again.

And now I must redial.
“Hello customer support, my old friend.
I’ve come to complain to you again.

“…John? Is that you?”

Kyle A. Massa is a comedy author of some sort living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their daughter, and three wild animals. His published works include 10 books, along with several short stories, essays, and poems. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading, running, and drinking cheap coffee.

Some links in this publication might be affiliate links. This means the author earns a commission on sales made through those links, while you pay no additional cost. Just another way to support indie authors!

Pain, Suffering, Fandom…and Fun!

June 14, 2026 /

I was digging through an old notebook the other day when I stumbled upon something troubling. Here’s the entry from December 2, 2024:

How was my Thanksgiving? It was crappy, thanks for asking. It was crappy for one reason: The New York Giants.

I fell into a dark place, which is not where you want to be when celebrating stuff like family and thankfulness. Thanks, Giants.

I’ve called myself a fan of this franchise since 2007, and during that time, they’ve never hurt me like they hurt me last Thursday. They lost 27-20 to the Dallas Cowboys (the team I’d hate most if the Philadelphia Eagles didn’t exist), yet the game was a lot less close than that score suggests. The Giants committed 14 penalties, which should add up to a felony. Worse, after a bitter Google search, I discovered the Giants haven’t beaten the Cowboys since 2016.

So there you have it. An eight-year octuplet of shellackings. And after the latest, which took place on one of the most fun-filled, joyous days of the year, I must ask myself why I care so much. Why did the outcome of a game I did not even bet on put me in such a bad mood I considered accepting the hangover guaranteed by a third snickerdoodle martini?

The answer is, of course, the nonsensical and self-inflicted form of torture known as fandom. We select our teams or players, then latch on like parasites in the proverbial colon, munching whatever nutrition or junk our host ingests. In the case of the Giants, mostly junk.

Have I mentioned this is nonsensical? It is. It makes no sense. My viewership or absence on Giants telecasts does nothing to affect the outcome. I can’t jinx them—no one can jinx them—because there’s no such thing as jinxing. No matter how hard we believe, believe this: The game transpires irrespective of us.

We should know all this by now, but we sports fans don’t. That’s why the word “fan” is derived from a more pejorative term: “Fanatic.” It’s a socially acceptable form of derangement.

Imagine, for example, your coworker arrived on Monday wearing a styrofoam cheese block on his head. We’ll call this hypothetical coworker “Reginald.” Reginald drinks Bud Light after Bud Light, complaining about the price between chugs, and he’s also been screaming and/or applauding and/or heckling you, all depending on your actions. At some point, Reginald removes his shirt to reveal the coarse rug beneath.

“Go Pack go!” he roars.

Reginald would, of course, be fired within the hour. But teleport Reginald out of the office and into Section G at Lambeau Field and he’d fit right in. Hell, they’d put him on the jumbotron.

Such is the overwhelming strangeness of sports fandom. I can only speak to it in my native United States, though I hear it’s even more voracious in other countries. And isn’t that adjective telling? “Voracious.” It sounds like a modifier for a predator in the jungle, yet it suits fans, too.

It’s nonsense. All of it. There’s no reason to feel happy or sad or anywhere in between about a team winning or losing. It’s no different than buying a shirt with the word “Heads” on the back and George Washington’s face on the front, then flipping a quarter and feeling depressed because it came up tails.

Deep down inside, I think we all know this. And yet, we delude ourselves anyway.

And that’s where the entry ended. I must’ve gotten a notification about the Giants doing something dumb. Happens all the time.

Kyle A. Massa is a comedy author of some sort living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their daughter, and three wild animals. His published works include 10 books, along with several short stories, essays, and poems. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading, running, and drinking cheap coffee.

Some links in this publication might be affiliate links. This means the author earns a commission on sales made through those links, while you pay no additional cost. Just another way to support indie authors!

Eulogy for a Box

May 30, 2026 /

About a year and a half ago, I lost a dear friend. My car.

Many called it “The Boxcar,” though the official title was Element, made by Honda. Indeed, it was an angular vehicle, like a tissue box on wheels.

My mom bought the Boxcar in 2005. She drove it everywhere: To work, school, and, on one memorable occasion, across a middle school’s back lawn when we were 20 minutes late to basketball team photo night. Our dog Daisy used to stand—not sit, stand—in the hatchback trunk, slamming into the walls whenever we came to a stoplight. And before you accuse us of animal cruelty, note that her tail wagged the entire time.

The Boxcar had a sunroof above the back row for reasons that remain unclear (usually one finds them above the front seats). When Daisy wasn’t bouncing like a pinball in the trunk, I’d recline and gaze up at the night sky as it scrolled past, hoping to glimpse a UFO. I never did, but if a UFO glimpsed us, the pilots might’ve wondered, “Haven’t these humans discovered aerodynamics yet?”

Yes, the Boxcar was rather boxy. Throughout high school and college, I had a reputation for driving slowly; I suspect the Boxcar was holding me back. That wide body and sloping hood reminded me of a bow-legged bulldog, and bulldogs aren’t sprinters.

 iconic? Also yes.

We overuse that latter adjective these days, but in this instance, it fits. “Regarded as a representative symbol”: That’s the New Oxford American Dictionary definition of iconic. And for me, the Boxcar truly became an icon.

To my knowledge, mine was the only green Honda Element on campus at Ithaca College in 2012. Thus, people recognized me for it. By “people,” I mean my friends, not strangers, since I rarely ventured outside my dorm. Yet still, this wasn’t your run-of-the-mill Sebring or F-150. I had a recognizable ride. If fact, if I ever arrived without it, friends would say, “Kyle, didn’t realize you were here! Where’s the Boxcar?”

On breaks, I drove that Boxcar from Ithaca to Albany and back, three hours each way. I cranked bootlegged audiobooks and/or CDs (remember those?), then stopped at Ithaca’s Taco Bell for the usual Crunchwrap. It was the car I drove to the occasional date. It was the place I first said, “I love you” to Sara, my future wife.

After graduating, Sara and I relocated to Colorado. We took the Boxcar skiing, hiking, camping, once even up the muddy slope of a mountain, gunk spraying beneath the back tires, and I was like “We’re not gonna make it!”, and Sara was like, “Just keep going!” We didn’t make it, but I give the Boxcar (and Sara) credit for trying.

A year-and-a-half later, we drove back across the country when we resettled in New York. Five years after that, we returned home from the hospital with our daughter Sasha in the same seat I used to gaze up at the stars in.

Oh, that Boxcar. It was durable, trustworthy, and ageless. Like LeBron.

In fact, it only showed its age in its 18th year. Frequent doctor’s visits are part of getting old, and so it went for my icon. We took it to the mechanic every month, replacing brake pads, tuning wheels, fixing calipers, repairing hyperdrives, and paying out the ass for mechanical mumbo-jumbo I didn’t understand. Sara suggested it might be time to search for another vehicle, to which I hissed like Gollum at the suggestion they’d cast his precious into the fires of Mount Doom.

She was right, of course. If there’s one thing that hurts me worse than losing a dear friend, it’s spending money trying to keep them alive. We pondered the car owner’s classic conundrum: If we’re paying so much for repairs, why not put that money toward payments for a new vehicle instead?

I wonder if the Boxcar could hear us out there in the garage. I wonder if it knew. Eighteen years is old for a car, and it had well over 200,000 miles. I wonder if it was ready go, or if it said to itself, “I can do it. I can keep going. Just a few miles more.”

One morning that fall, the Boxcar wouldn’t start. I called AAA. AAA sent a guy. The guy was like, “I can’t fix this. Try your mechanic.” He estimated it would cost a few hundred bucks just to get the poor old thing started.

Instead, we called a towing company. Another guy arrived, this one wearing a “Hawk Tua ‘24” hat, and he hooked a chain to the Boxcar, then hauled it onto a platform, inch by inch. Sasha watched from the window, and Sara recorded her three-year-old little voice as she waved and said, “Goodbye, Boxcar. Dank you, Boxcar.”

We got a Godfather offer for the old faithful Box: $100. I’m sure this was just a tax write-off, since the dealer did us a favor by towing it away. We test drove several vehicles, during which process Sara thumped her head against the headrests of each, insisting, “It doesn’t go high enough! We need neck support. We need neck support!” We’d grown to expect such support from our Box.

Eventually, we chose a CR-V. I wouldn’t have minded another Element, but Honda discontinued them in 2011, so CR-V it was, and is. It’s a dark aqua shade, the color my frienemies the New York Giants wear, so naturally, we named the car Bluey.

Bluey is a wonderful vehicle. It’s got a remote starter, heated seats, Apple CarPlay, and a spacious interior. But it’s also decidedly average—a basic bitch, if I may be so crass. I spot CR-Vs every day on my commute to work, many of the same blue hue.

Yet Boxcars are rare. I glimpse them every so often, like proud, squat hippos on the riverbank, standing or plodding but never quite zooming by. (In fact, I think a hippo’s probably faster.) The sight brings me back to Ithaca, to Colorado, to the delivery room, to it all.

So to close this eulogy, or essay, or whatever it turned out to be, I’d like to quote my daughter.

Dank you, Boxcar. Dank you.

Kyle A. Massa is a comedy author of some sort living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their daughter, and three wild animals. His published works include 10 books, along with several short stories, essays, and poems. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading, running, and drinking cheap coffee.

Some links in this publication might be affiliate links. This means the author earns a commission on sales made through those links, while you pay no additional cost. Just another way to support indie authors!

Announcement: I’ve Been Named Editor-In-Chief of “Cat Quarterly: A Quarterly Magazine About Cats”

April 1, 2026 /

Behold! An edition of "Cat Quarterly" on a tabletop!

If you know me, you know I love cats. Therefore, I’m thrilled about this new opportunity. I’m now the Editor-in-chief of Cat Quarterly!

What is Cat Quarterly, you ask? Shame on you. You should know (unless you’re allergic). It’s the premiere feline publication in the world, publishing for the first time such miraculous works as “A Day to Meow” and “On Keeping the Litter in the Box.”

Cat Quarterly was founded in 1955 by…someone. I’m not sure who. The website just says “Don’t ask,” so I won’t. I suspect it was a cat, because that’s a pretty sassy answer. The real question is, how did that founding cat write without fingers? They must’ve commanded a human to do it, which is where I come in.

As Editor-in-chief, I’ll be curating this wonderful publication and ensuring its everlasting quality. I’ll have the final say on what gets in, what stays out, and what gets edited so heavily that it’s barely recognizable. If you’d like to submit to the magazine, please do.

P.S. Happy April Fools’ Day.

Kyle A. Massa is a human living in a house of two cats. There’s also a dog in the house, along with two other humans, one of them a child. Doesn’t matter. The cats own the house and everything in it, including Kyle himself. Outside of writing, he enjoys changing their litter, feeding them twice a day, and providing milk whenever they command.

P.S. I used ProWritingAid to super-edit this post and all my others. If you’d like to spot repetitive phrasing, identify wordy sentences, and generally clean up your writing, they’re running their annual Spring Sale now for 25% off. That’s not an April Fools’ joke. So check it out! And yes, that is an affiliate link, because I dig their product so much.

If This is the Future of AI, I’m Disappointed

March 24, 2026 /

A frowning robot face.

So I got an email the other day from William Gibson.

That name might ring a bell, because William Gibson is a famous and influential science fiction author. I mean, he’s got his own Wikipedia page. He wrote Neuromancer, the novel largely credited with pioneering—and perhaps perfecting—the cyberpunk genre. He also wrote two X-Files episodes, which were kinda mid, but still.

So William Gibson emailed me. I know, I thought the same thing you’re thinking now: That’s funny. Must be someone with the same name.

Turns out it wasn’t. It was, he assured me, the real, actual William Gibson. He really buttered me up, too:

“I want to be upfront with you before anything else. I don’t do this. Writing cold to someone I haven’t met is not in my nature and not something I make a habit of.”

Oh really? You don’t randomly email random indie authors to randomly lavish praise upon them? I never would’ve guessed!

William proceeded to compliment several stories in my collection, Monsters at Dusk, with comments that seemed specific but weren’t. For example, “[Yours] is the instinct of a writer who understands that the most serious arguments land hardest in the most apparently frivolous containers.”

Gee whiz, thanks mister! Are you about to offer me a lucrative book deal in exchange for my social security number?

Alas, no. William ended like, 10 paragraphs later, with a soft sell:

“No agenda. Just one person who spent forty years asking what happens when the rules collide wanting to be useful to someone who found the funniest and most honest version of the answer.”

And in case I had any doubts, William even signed his unnecessarily lengthy email like this: “William Gibson, Author of Neuromancer, Pattern Recognition & Agency, Vancouver, BC.”

The funny thing is, AI impersonation would fit right into a William Gibson novel. Because that’s what’s going on here. Some scammer punched my stuff into Chat GPT and requested an email from William (my new biggest fan, apparently), and, five minutes later, they hit “send.”

Bait cast. Now to wait for the dumb fish to bite.

Now I may be dumb, but I’m not a fish. Also, for the past few years, I get emails like this daily. Since William messaged me on Monday, for instance, I received emails from “Lilly’s Morgan” (why is there an apostrophe?) offering me a free business loan, and another from the dubiously named “Maxwell Skyrim.” No subject line, but here’s the body in its entirety:

“Hi Kyle, I had a quick thought. If I could bring steady book sales to your Amazon listing, would you consider a 2% commission arrangement?”

Say no more, Mr. Skyrim! You’re hired! And while we’re at it, let’s discuss upping that commission rate, shall we? You deserve so much more!

For the record, I don’t share people’s emails to public forums without their consent. But these aren’t actual people—they’re just AI scambots with unlikely names. And though I’m tempted to reply back with some of these zingers I’ve shared with you, it’s best to just ignore them. If these scammers feel a wiggle on the line, they won’t stop pulling.

I feel like we keep being promised that AI is the wave of the future, and yet when it comes to art, I keep being disappointed. Mostly, it seems non-artists are just using AI to impersonate, dupe, or even try to replace actual artists.

To be clear, I’m not totally opposed to artificial intelligence. (Not that being opposed to a tidal wave keeps you dry, anyway.) I’m told it’s got promising applications for medicine, science, technology, and more.

But otherwise, I gotta say, I’m not impressed, AI. I know you just do what people tell you to do, but if you can’t do anything more productive than petty grifting, I don’t think you belong in the pond with us artists.

So stay out! And scammers, stop scamming people. It’s only funny for the first few emails, and after that, it’s just annoying.

And to Mr. William Gibson, if that somehow really, truly was you, I am so, so sorry.

Kyle A. Massa is a comedy author of some sort living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their daughter, and three wild animals. His published works include 10 books, along with several short stories, essays, and poems. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading, running, and drinking cheap coffee.

Some links in this publication might be affiliate links. This means the author earns a commission on sales made through those links, while you pay no additional cost. Just another way to support indie authors like me!

The 13th, A Friday

March 13, 2026 /

A wiggly, wavy number 13.

According to my watch, today is Friday. It’s also the 13th day of the month. I hear that means it’s an unlucky day.

But why? I’ve always wondered—and by always, I mean since about three hours ago. So here’s some hasty and half-assed research to answer the question.

I Consult A Friend

Many people have befriended AI these days, but I’m as anti-droid as the Mandalorian, so instead, I turned to my longtime friend, Wikipedia. “Hey Wikipedia,” I asked. “What’s the deal with Friday the 13th?”

Nothing happened. Then I remembered that Wikipedia’s a website and not a chatbot thingy, so instead, I Googled this: “what’s the deal with friday the 13th?”

According to the ol’ Peds, one possible origin of the Friday the 13th superstition is the Last Supper, which took place on the 13th and had 13 guests, and was also served tapas style.

That last part was a joke because I hate tapas. But the rest is apparently true—but not spicy enough for my tastes. There’s also apparently some possible connection to the Knights Templar, although I didn’t bother clicking that link, and even a brief skim nearly put me back to sleep.

But my favorite story? It comes from a Norse myth.

A Killer Dinner

Okay, so, according to those Vikings (the original ones, not the ones from Minnesota), the Norse pantheon was hosting a dinner party for 12 gods and goddesses. I have to assume it was a potluck. The 13th attendee was an uninvited guest: Loki, God of Mischief.

You remember Loki. He’s got his own show on Disney+. Anyhoo, through some chicanery that probably involved insulting someone’s mother, Loki tricked Hod into shooting Balder with a mistletoe arrow. Balder must’ve had quite the allergy, because he was invulnerable to everything but that. The arrow killed him, and since Balder was the God of Good Stuff (official title), the world was consigned to suffering in his absence.

Now that’s a story. It’s got everything: Food, family, fun, murder. Plus, it answers my question. Apparently, no one knows the exact origin of the superstition, so I’m going with that.

When’s the Next One?

After today, there’s another Friday the 13th coming up in November, then another after that in August. I figure you should plan ahead, in case you’re hoping to win the lottery or place a risky sports wager. If so, don’t do it on those days.

In conclusion, humans are weird. We pass superstitions like these from generation to generation, despite there being no evidence to support them. According to that informative Wikipedia article, scientists have even analyzed the date to determine if, say, accidents are more common, yet nothing conclusive has ever been found.

And nothing ever will be. Because it’s just a day, just like any other day, only this one happens to share a name with a mediocre horror film franchise. But hey, at least it gave me something to write about.

And I’ll keep writing about it! Because for my premium readers, there’s some bonus writing below. Enjoy!

All the best,

Kyle

Kyle A. Massa is a comedy author of some sort living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their daughter, and three wild animals. His published works include 10 books, along with several short stories, essays, and poems. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading, running, and drinking cheap coffee.

Some links in this publication might be affiliate links. This means the author earns a commission on sales made through those links, while you pay no additional cost. Just another way to support indie authors like me!

Descent of the Beavers

February 15, 2026 /

A cartoon beaver frolics through the cartoon woods.

A month or so ago, I was chatting with my wife’s Aunt Carol about books. Shoutout to Aunt Carol. And books.

She mentioned a book Sara’s other aunt, Aunt Carol Ann—not to be confused with Carol herself—had once read, all about Project Beaver Drop. If this was a book by Kurt Vonnegut it might have a different meaning, but it wasn’t fiction. It was a true story.

According to my beloved Wikipedia, in 1948, the Idaho Department of Fish and Game devised a rather unorthodox method of relocating beavers to new habitats. Parachuting.

This is a delightful image. Picture a buck-toothed cartoon beaver strapping on his little beaver helmet and snapping on his little beaver goggles, then leaping from the belly of a plane, all to the heroic strains of “Rock You Like a Hurricane.” Like I said. Delightful.

It’s also proof of the adage about truth, strangeness, and fiction. You couldn’t come up with that, and if you did, it wouldn’t be as funny as the fact that it actually happened.

For writers, these are the nuggets that make writing fun. The world is a weird place, and whether you’re writing fiction or non, there’s no shortage of inspiration. (I could stray into a screed against generative AI here, but I’ll abstain.) Suffice it to say that stories about parachuting beavers aren’t just amusing—they’re inspiring.

And so, now that I’m inspired by fact, I’d like to share some fiction. For my premium readers, stick around for a 100-word story inspired by the nonsense I just described. And to those beavers who parachuted, we are forever in your debt.

Kyle A. Massa is a comedy author of some sort living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their daughter, and three wild animals. His published works include 10 books, along with several short stories, essays, and poems. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading, running, and drinking cheap coffee.

Some links in this publication may be affiliate links. This means the author earns a commission on sales made through those links, while you pay no additional cost.

An image of a watch that's melting, Dali style.

Time Travel at the Speed of One’s Thumb

January 19, 2026 /

Confession: I listen to podcasts at 1.5x speed.

It’s like watching a movie in fast-forward. Slight fast-forward. It’s not double the pace—it’s just halfway there. The effect is podcasters who sound peppy, caffeine-wired, and a little like Alvin and the Chipmunks. They also tend to speakinsuchawaythatalltheirwordlumptogether.

My wife razzes me about such silliness. But once you’ve grown accustomed to 1.5x, regular speech sounds sluggish. Tipsy.

Tipsy or not, this is artificial time travel. With the tap of a thumb, we warp to the moment those words were spoken, then listen while they’re spoken again at whatever pace we command.

Obviously, we don’t get that sort of control from everyday life. Boring or intolerable stretches seem to last a lifetime, while the better ones (vacations, for instance) zoom on by. It’s like someone’s cranking or slowing the speed on the pod, only it’s not us. Maybe it’s God. Does God like podcasts? Probably.

There must be mental tricks that alter time’s perception. I’m pretty sure that’s what mindfulness is all about, although I despise mindfulness because it’s a social media buzzword everyone uses, yet no one defines. Like “growth hacking.” Or worse, “gut.”

It’s a futile gesture anyway. Ask any parent about their child’s childhood, and they will, to a person, express the same thought: “It went by so fast.” If anyone says, “It was the slowest stretch of my life,” you must avoid them, because they’re an alien replicant. Reminiscence bolsters this phenomenon, too. High school dragged on while I was living it, yet now, it seems it vanished in the space between blinks, and so long ago.

And oh yeah, remember Covid? In my lifetime at least, there’s no distortion like it. Some days, even high school feels more recent than lockdowns and social distancing. Others, it feels like only a few months have passed since everything went back to more-or-less normal. Covid feels like its own little pocket in time—a separate feed, to further the podcast metaphor.

Of course, our understanding of time’s passage is entirely subjective, even though the recording is anything but. Every minute lasts sixty ticks of the hand, every hour sixty minutes. Yet when we live that hour, we’re living at different speeds.

So I suppose I’ll continue living at whatever speed life chooses. Unlike my podcasts, where I listen at 1.5x, sometimes even 2x if I’m feeling plucky, and I pile into the car with Sara, and my Magic: The Gathering pod starts auto-playing, and she mocks it by speaking in clipped jumbles of gibberish until I turn it off.

But hey, I chose that speed, just like I chose that podcast. Time, however, has different plans.

Kyle A. Massa is a comedy author of some sort living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their daughter, and three wild animals. His published works include 10 books, along with several short stories, essays, and poems. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading, running, and drinking cheap coffee.

Some links in this publication may be affiliate links. This means the author earns a commission on sales made through those links, while you pay no additional cost.

New Year, Two New Books

January 4, 2026 /

Mother Day and Father Night are finally here! And here’s what they’re about.

A Lot of Stuff

Because they’re short story collections. Both of them. I considered pitching them as a duology, but that sounds pretentious, so let’s just call them complimentary short story collections examining similar themes from different angles. That rolls right off the tongue.

A side-by-side image of the covers of "Mother Day" and "Father Night."

Do I Have Any Random Bits of Trivia That Are Actually Quite Specific and Interesting?

Why yes, I do!

  • Both books are exactly 230 printed pages in length.
  • The oldest story, “Big Riches, Fine Wine, and a Pinch of Dragonsbane,” was first drafted 13 years ago. The newest, “Last Day of September,” was born three months ago.
  • One tale is framed as a TV pilot. Another spoofs those VH1 TV music documentaries. Another is told through a family group text chain.
  • One story is slightly poem-ish.
  • Two stories share a pair of recurring characters between them.
  • Three feature aliens.
  • Four feature cats.
  • I’ve got nothing for five.
  • Genres explored include fantasy, science fiction, horror, mystery, young adult, old (retired) adult, and post-apocalyptic.
  • There’s a story featuring characters you’ll meet again in a future series (perhaps sooner than you know).
    My favorite of the bunch is “Mary and the Muse.” Or maybe “Leyton Family Group Chat.” Or perhaps “A Committee of Vultures.” I can’t decide.

That’s Some of the Story Names…But Will I Reveal Them All?

If you’re a premium subscriber to this publication, you already know them. If not, here are the set lists…

Mother Day

  1. “Mary and the Muse”
  2. “Feed Me”
  3. “The Post-Apocalyptic Independent Author”
  4. “Remember That Time We Saved the World?”
  5. “Disguises”
  6. “Blackest Friday”
  7. “The Hecatontagonal Suite” (which features…)
    1. “Purgatory”
    2. “Origin Story”
    3. “Regards, Bruce”
    4. “It’s French, Dammit”
    5. “Talkin’ ‘Bout a Revolution”
    6. “Bombing”
    7. “Seasonal Power Rankings”
    8. “Nocturnal Interruption”
    9. “Cryptid Convention”
    10. “Wishes x3”
  8. “This is (Not) the End”
  9. “Wonderland is a Shade of White”
  10. “Too Many Meows”
  11. “Bill’s Second Act”
  12. “Bag of Apricots: A T.V. Pilot Script”
  13. “If Pages Could Blush”

Father Night

  1. “Leyton Family Group Chat”
  2. “Big Riches, Fine Wine, and a Pinch of Dragonsbane”
  3. “A Fistful of Candies”
  4. “A Minor Misunderstanding”
  5. “Sightings”
  6. “Quite a Polite Guy”
  7. “Letters for Janie”
  8. “The Julian Strange Story: A T.V. Documentary Chronicling the Life of a Legend”
  9. “Little Pieces of Lydia”
  10. “Mittens”
  11. “Last Day of September”
  12. “A Committee of Vultures”

Any Parting Thoughts?

Both Mother Day and Father Night are available now in ebook form. Paperbacks are on the way. I’m so glad to share them with you all.

Kyle A. Massa is a comedy author of some sort living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their daughter, and three wild animals. His published works include 10 books, along with several short stories, essays, and poems. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading, running, and drinking cheap coffee.

Some links in this publication may be affiliate links. This means the author earns a commission on sales made through those links, while you pay no additional cost.

A Somewhat Serious Gift Guide for That Reclusive and Possibly Vampiric Writer in Your Life

December 25, 2025 /

Writers are weird. I’m sure you’ve noticed.

We’re up at all hours, morning and night, inventing stories about people and places that don’t exist, and never will. And we write about ourselves in the third-person for our bios. Super weird.

I’m sure you’ve also noticed it’s the holiday season, which means you’re expected to buy crap for everyone, whether or not they need it. Today, I’ve got some gift ideas to share with you.

Are they good ideas? Umm. Some of them.

Cats

Those cats? No, you can’t have those cats. Those are my cats.

But cats are the perfect pets for writers. They’re quiet. They’re independent. They’re unobtrusive. They’re judgmental too, which helps if you’re overusing adverbs. They might also sit on your lap while you’re writing, which is a heartwarming experience, assuming someone’s cut their nails recently.

The only problem? They’re probably plotting to murder you in your sleep. In fact, I’m writing a story about it. I’ve got two cats, and while the orange one is a sweetheart, the other I’m still afraid of. Wish me luck…

A Keyboard

I’m sure you know a writer who could use a new keyboard. Only the pretentious ones still write longhand. I myself own five keyboards—no wait, six. Another came in the mail last week.

Why? I enjoy using a different one every day. You know, for the varied tactile experience. In fact, sometimes I’ll just rub my fingers over the keys like they’re cow nipples in need of milking.

If you’re not disturbed by that mental image, my recent favorite keyboard is Logitech’s MK295 model. It’s sleek, quiet, and man, does it feel better than a cow nipple.

ProWritingAid

This is actually an earnest recommendation. I mean, I suppose they all should be, but who are we kidding? I can’t write anything without at least a few jokes.

But I would never joke about ProWritingAid. That would be like joking about God in church. And last I checked, God doesn’t check your writing for grammatical errors, wordy phrasing, and repetitive language. PWA does all that and more.

My favorite feature has to be the Repeats report. I fixate on certain words (for instance, “anyhoo”), then use them constantly, without realizing it, sometimes within the same paragraph. That’s tough for writers to spot, but grating for readers, especially with silly words like, oh, I don’t know, anyhoo.

Ever since I discovered this product back in 2017, I’ve used it to copyedit my writing. In fact, I’ve yet to publish a book without running it through ProWritingAid first. I don’t plan to break that pattern with Mother Day and Father Night later this month, either.

The best part is, I don’t have to. Unlike pretty much every other company out there these days, ProWritingAid lets you buy the product outright with their Lifetime Plan. (That’s what I have.) You can still pay a monthly subscription fee if you’d like, but the Lifetime Plan is worth it in the long run.

If you know a writer in need of a gift, yet they already own six keyboards, buy them a ProWritingAid plan. They’ll write you a grammatically flawless thank-you letter later.

A Coffee Maker

Alright, now we’re just delving into cheap writerly stereotypes. But hey, if it comes with an affiliate link, I’m not above it.

Speaking of which, here’s a conveniently placed affiliate link now. I’ve got a Mochamaster like this at home, and I use it every day to wake up in the morning, because it’s cheaper than cocaine. And hey, while we’re on the subject…

Cocaine

Or as Dewey Cox calls it, cuh-caine.

I’m kidding. Don’t be like Stephen King circa-1986. Don’t do cocaine. Or cuh-caine. Content yourself with the Clapton song.

Vellum

Ah yes, my precious. I’ve been using Vellum ever since I started indie publishing back in 2018, and I can’t imagine life without it.

Seriously, I hear so many poor souls on Reddit and YouTubekvetching about book woes. I’ve never needed to because Vellum does it all for me.

This is a screenshot from the forthcoming Mother Day. As you can see, it looks marvelous. On the left, you’ve got your chapters (or in this case, short stories). In the middle, you’ve got your workspace. On the right, you’ve got your preview. You can set that preview to e-readers, too, from Kindles to Nooks to Kobos (whatever all that gibberish means).

Technically, Vellum isn’t a word processor. It’s a book formatting tool for both digital and paper. Yet I enjoy it so much I’ve taken to writing with it.

Why? Because when I’m typing in Google Docs, I feel like I’m working on a document. But when I see how my words will look on the page with Vellum, it feels real to me. Silly, I know, but true nonetheless.

If you care to be real with your writer friends, get them Vellum. It’s sick.

Trello

If you buy someone deodorant for Christmas, it might be perceived as an insult. After all, you’re kind of implying that they’re smelly. Likewise, if you buy them an organizational tool, the recipient might think you think they’re disorganized.

Don’t worry. I’m one of the more organized people I know (flex), and I still love Trello.

Think of it like a big virtual corkboard. You’ve got the board itself, with cards arranged in columns and pinned to the board. These cards and columns are yours to customize. For example, I’ve got columns for novels, short stories, poetry, Magic: The Gathering articles, etc. Your disorganized writer friend might work differently.

That’s the beauty of Trello. It’s the perfect place to gather those scattered thoughts, those impending deadlines, those unresolved strands of plot. In short, it tidies the intrinsically messy process of writing.

Trello is technically designed as a collaborative tool—and it still can be. If you’ve got a writing partner, for example, this is one of the best ways to work together.

But I’m a lone wolf, and I’ve still been using—and loving—Trello for the past five years. I think you’ll feel the same way.

A Subscription to Mundanity in Action

Our penultimate recommendation is a somewhat shameless plug, because what better way to celebrate the holiday season than with self-aggrandizement? I mean, that fat slob Santa does it every year, so why can’t I?

Yes, you are reading Mundanity in Action, my personal Substack. Each week, I write about writing, or books, or observations regarding this strange condition we call life. I also occasionally use profanity toward beloved literary figures, but we won’t get into that now. After all, it’s the fuckin’ holiday season.

Suffice it to say that this publication is and always will be free. However, by paying as little as five dollars a month, you can unlock bonus content in every post, along with a 50% discount on ebooks purchased through my online store, plus a free digital copy of my annual collection, Things Happened, sent straight to you.

From the bottom of my heart, thank you for supporting my work. It means everything to me!

Garlic

I did mention at the top that your friend might be a vampire. With writers, sometimes it’s hard to tell. Are they pale and allergic to sunlight because they’re inside writing all day…or are they a vampire? Are they sexy and mysterious because they write super-hot bodice rippers…or are they a vampire?

Garlic is the best way to find out. (That or holy water, but who’s got bottles of that stuff lying around?) Just offer your pal a big bowl of buttery garlic shrimp, or some loaded mashed potatoes, or some greasy garlic knots. If they eat them and live, everyone’s happy. If they eat them and vaporize into a cloudy black plume of dust, well then. I’ve just saved your life.

You’re Welcome

Both for saving your life, and for the gift recommendations. If nothing else, I hope they made you smile.

Kyle A. Massa is a comedy author of some sort living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their daughter, and three wild animals. His published works include eight books, along with several short stories, essays, and poems. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading, running, and drinking cheap coffee.

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