Rachel Sayer

I swear, drink and smoke.
I am a lady.
I enjoy a good Sunday morning mass.
I complain far too much.
I always try to make people feel comfortable.
I talk and laugh very loudly.
I like to have fun, of course.
I give out second chances like candy on Halloween.

I'm getting my degree in creative writing this May. I've only been doing this for a few years and rely pretty heavily on instinct and first impressions. What I mean to say is, I don't know what the hell I'm doing.

The defining element in my life and writing is a place, and that place is Door County Wisconsin. Living there is an oblivious high for few, a slow death for most. For me it's a bit of both. It is the darkest epitome of small-towndom.
A sad community of sad people, by some turn trapped in a place they hate, yet define, drowning their pain every night in laughter and pint glasses, muting it every morning with the insulation of a freshly rolled joint. Everything there is always dying, never dead. Languishing. The only thing worse than a suicide is an attempted suicide. We are the lowest of the low. The saddest of the sad. The loneliest of the lonesome. We are entirely pathetic. We are the miserable. I love it. For me, the dim yet irresistible force of the place is a beautiful curse.

So welcome to the alleyway. Welcome to the w***e-house. Welcome to the basement. Welcome to the funeral home. Welcome to the theater of the absurd. Welcome to the rendezvous. Welcome to Death�s Door. Welcome home.