One of the proudest days of my academic career was being placed in the “advanced” group after a reading assessment in first grade. As such, I was permitted to read books marked with a daunting “5.” The most challenging books set aside for young, aspiring readers – the first small steps on the way to much larger feats, like The Lord of the Rings and To Kill A Mockingbird.

But before I would be able to tackle hobbits and other, more advanced literature, I had to grapple with a purple horse named Lucille.


In retrospect, it’s very clear to me that 5-year-old Allie picked Lucille by Arnold Lobel because it was about a horse, and I’ve been an animal lover my whole life. But 5-year-old Allie should not have picked this book – she should have run far, far away, and made a different selection. And why is that?

Because I couldn’t pronounce “Lucille.”

You would think I’d pick a book with a title I could pronounce with my limited child vocabulary, but nooooooo, that would make too much sense. I’m half-sure I didn’t even look at the title when I chose it, I just saw a purple horse and was like, “YES, THIS ONE.” Kids are so impulsive. And stupid.

It was only after I got home, yanked the book out of my backpack, and scanned the front, that I realized I couldn’t read the title. And my stomach sank, because I knew at the end of the week I was going to have to read the book aloud to the teacher, and being able to read the title is a pretty big part of that. I was terrified I’d get demoted out of the advanced reading group, forever scorned by my classmates, mocked for my lack of knowledge. I’d never be able to look at horses the same way again.

I suppose I probably hoped that it was just the title, and the name didn’t pop up too much in the actual book… but that was not to be. And it’s not like I could just bloop over it, like they teach you at that age to do with words you can’t pronounce. It was like, 50% of the book. Should have watched all those reruns of I Love Lucy on TV Land when I was younger, but I was more of a Brady Bunch person.

So, what did I do? Did I ask my mom for help, which would have been the most logical thing to do? No, no. Stubborn Child-Allie had far too much pride, and that careless hubris was her downfall.

Instead of asking for help, I guessed. To be fair, I used the typically tried-and-true method of “sound it out,” and I was 100% certain that I got it right, so I didn’t bother double-checking with anyone who could, you know… actually read.

Therefore, I called the horse “Luckily.” Which, at least, is a real word. The rest of the book, after that minor snafu, was a total breeze. “Luckily” the horse has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it? It’s completely wrong, but not way out in left field. More like… on the third base line. Or in foul territory.

So, I went into my next reading assessment super confident that I was going to nail it… until I sat down in an uncomfortable plastic chair in front of my first grade teacher, Lucille in hand, and the doubts began to swoop in. My certainty wavered, then snapped like a brittle twig. So when she told me to begin, I just sat there, staring at that damn purple horse, and I said nothing for a long time.

Until I finally admitted, “Um… I don’t know how to say this.”

“It’s Lucille,” my teacher explained, pronouncing it perfectly.

And then I read the book through, cover to cover, and didn’t mess up once. No damage to my reading reputation was done by the gaffe, by admitting my weakness. I wasn’t placed in a lower reading level, I continued to foster an intense love of reading and literature, and in the following years, I moved on to bigger books about worlds in wardrobes, dashing heroes, clever young detectives, and a troupe of creative babysitters.

Sometimes, it’s okay to ask for help, or to mess up a bit on an initial attempt. It’s okay to not know everything, especially if you’re five/six years old and only just learning to read proper books. You don’t need to hit a homerun your first turn at bat or score a goal your first time on the field. I might have struggled a bit with a purple horse named Lucille, but luckily, I learned from the experience – and to this day, I’m not afraid to admit when I don’t know how to pronounce a word, or can’t puzzle out a definition.



(Thought I’d share a short story I wrote several years ago and only just stumbled across.)


by: Allie Frost

         Café La Bréche was unusually busy for a Thursday morning. Outside, beneath the bright yellow awning, every table was occupied. To foreigners, the café advertised ‘Paris in a cup,’ but to the Parisians it was nothing more than a simple, somewhat tacky café by the Seine, the towers of Notre Dame watching thoughtfully in the distance.

Emery King wasn’t overly fond of the place, but she had picked it out—and so he went. She said she liked the ambience. He preferred to select his breakfast venues based on the food choice and whether or not he deemed the prices reasonable, but Mona would take burnt croissants and exorbitantly expensive espresso as long as the atmosphere was nice.

“Your coffee will get cold if you don’t drink.”

At his warning, Mona obediently took a sip from her mug, green eyes twinkling over the rim. “Cold coffee is not a tragedy,” she teased.

Emery scoffed. “For €4.50 a cup it is.”

Mona laughed. A breeze kicked up, and she brushed some auburn strands of hair from her face. She had changed her color again. She had been blonde the last time he saw her, and brunette the time before that. He didn’t even remember what her natural hair looked like—or if he had ever seen it.

Mona smirked. “You’ve always been too serious, Emery.”

Emery sighed, crossing one leg over his knee.

You are not serious enough.”

“I am known to be serious sometimes,” she informed him indignantly. “For example, when I tell you I am glad you came to visit, I am being serious.”

He dabbed at his moustache with a napkin. The foam from his coffee always collected there. He would probably need to shave soon. He had an important conference in about a week and wanted to look professional. Mona hated the moustache the last time they had met—Berlin, three years ago. It was half the reason he’d kept it so long. But this time she said she loved it.

“I could visit more often if we lived in the same country.”

Mona took the sunglasses from the top of her head and positioned them over her eyes. Emery wished she wouldn’t hide them. Sometimes, when he looked in her eyes, he could almost grasp what she was thinking, or feeling—almost. No matter what else she changed, her eyes had always been the same. Mystifying green.

“I like it here,” she determined. “There is no reason for me to move.”

Emery rolled his eyes. She liked it now. She would hate it in three months and move a thousand miles away, most likely, and he’d only find out when his letters would return to him unopened with ‘Return to Sender’ stamped in red on the envelope.

“You don’t even speak the language.”

Mona laughed lightly. Emery loathed that laugh as much as he loved it. Such a careless sort of afterthought – as though she found no actual humor in his words, but wanted to appease him. A whimsical flippancy. An expression of pity. It frustrated him.

“Precisely why I like it.”

Emery tried not to show his annoyance. She couldn’t even order a croissant in French. Yet she had lived in Paris for at least a year—or was it two? He didn’t remember. She knew ‘bonjour’ and ‘au revoir.’ Hello and goodbye. She was a creature of constant hellos and goodbyes – it was what came in between those hellos and goodbyes that kept changing.

“What is the point in living in a place where you can’t understand anyone?”

“That’s the point, though.” She stared at him, but he couldn’t quite see her eyes beyond the tinted lenses. “If you don’t understand, then you can pretend. The nastiest insults become the prettiest compliments when you don’t understand the difference.”

             It’s a pretend life, he wanted to tell her. You’re not really living.

But of course he wouldn’t say that. She wouldn’t listen anyway.

He sighed.

“I will never understand you, Mona.”

He had known her for a long time—thirteen years. Since freshman year of college. Every sporadic letter, every fleeting conversation since then always felt like he was speaking to someone he had never met. Struggling to hang on to the image of a person he would never really know, and perhaps, had never known at all.

She smiled coyly. “No, you won’t. But it’s better that way.”

Her coffee had stopped steaming. She had only taken a few sips—the mug was over half-full. €4.50 for a cold coffee. Such a waste—a tragedy.

The Dolphin Statue

Every day, on my way to work, I pass a house with a dolphin statue featured proudly in the front yard.

It’s a curious thing. I’m pretty sure it’s made of wood. It’s cute, and the dolphin looks friendly.

But most of the time, when I glance out the window at it as I drive past, I can’t help but wonder, “….Why?”

I mean, it’s not a conventional choice for a lawn decoration. It’s no garden gnome, or one of those goose statues, or one of those fake deer used for archery practice that I constantly think are real. But how did the person who lives in that house come to own such a curious thing?

Is the person a hero to porpoises, and he was gifted the statue for some commendable deed?

Did the person receive it as an unusual present, and, unsure of where to put it, just stuck it in the front yard for passersby to admire?

Is the owner a carpenter of some kind, and the dolphin is a work they are especially proud of, so they put it on display?

Or… does the person just really like dolphins?

I may never have the answers to these questions, and that’s okay. Though, really, I am very curious to know the origins of the dolphin statue.

But even if I’ll never know, it gives me reason to wonder. And when I find things to wonder about – to theorize endlessly on the countless possibilities – I know that it’s still possible to find inspiration, even in such little things, and great stories can come from simple curiosities.

If you’re in need of a new read, check out my YA novel, I’m With You! The ebook is only $1.99 or (£1.55) and paperback is $9.99 (£7.99) on Amazon Amazon UK.  Paperback is also $9.99 on


One and Done

In my experience as an avid movie watcher, I’ve seen several films that lack the rewatch-ability factor, which means (at least personally) they aren’t films that seem meant to be watched more than once. Of course, this varies by person, but here’s a list of films that I’ve only seen once and have 0% desire to see again, and my reasons why.

1.) Saving Private Ryan (1998)
This is a phenomenal film about the experience of WWII and a band of determined American soldiers who are attempting to find Private Ryan, the last remaining of four brothers, and send him home. This film is brilliant and was totally robbed of the Best Picture Oscar, but it isn’t an easy watch – the opening half-hour is especially gut-churning and difficult to watch for its graphic depiction of the events at Omaha Beach during the Normandy Invasion. I was too young to see this film in theaters and can’t imagine how hard it must have been for people to witness on the big screen, especially for veterans who were there during the actual events. The film is widely lauded as being accurate in its portrayal of violence and warfare, and though it is a memorable and marvelous work of film-making, and well-deserving of its enduring reputation, one viewing was enough for me.

2.) A Clockwork Orange (1971)
I was subjected to Stanley Kubrick’s dystopian adaptation of Anthony Burgess’s novel in a film class. It is a dark exploration into the idea of “ultra-violence” with an utterly baffling sociopathic protagonist who is involved in a variety of horrendous crimes, and is later subjected to horrendous punishments. But just because a number of bad things are depicted by this film does not mean it is a bad film. For the record, this film – as a work of art – is great. The acting is astounding, the depiction of society is thought-provoking, the imagery is stunning, and there are countless shocking and horrid moments that linger in the mind long after the film is done. It deserves the notoriety it garnered and the controversy it kicked up and remains a powerful film so many years later. I am glad to have seen it. But it is not enjoyable. And a lot of horrible things happen in it that I never want to see again. But man, it is a spectacle. If you are easily upset by violence, DO NOT WATCH.

3.) Eyes Wide Shut (1999)
Yeah… there’s a Kubrickian theme to this list. To be fair, he is one of my favorite directors, and there are many Kubrick films that I have seen/would see again, such as 2001: A Space Odyssey, The Shining, and Dr. Strangelove.  But Eyes Wide Shut, an erotic drama/thriller that features a sex cult, orgies, and young women being sold into prostitution was just too… bizarre, for me. Which is saying a lot, because I like weird films. It’s got great performances, and I have since enjoyed mocking the “I’M A DOCTOR!” line from Tom Cruise in my everyday life, but by the end of this film I was just… confused. I didn’t get what the film was trying to do, and, as a result, didn’t much like it or appreciate it, even though some critics lauded it as Kubrick’s best (to which I ask, have you ever seen 2001?). It’s one of Kubrick’s works that didn’t land for me, and I didn’t find that much to enjoy about it or glean from it. It didn’t help that I had to watch it in a class of my college peers, which was pretty uncomfortable (I’m fairly sure it was the uncut version, as well), and truth be told, though it has its merits, I am 100% happy to never watch this movie ever again, purely for the fact that I didn’t like it.

4.) Borat (2006)
I was actually forced to watch this film as a final for my Documentary film class in college, and I hated every single second of it. I do like Sacha Baron Cohen as an actor, but some of his roles are simply not my brand of humor. I’m sure some folks could watch Borat’s exploits in his green mankini and his generally offensive, occasionally racist, and always inappropriate humor over and over again and always find it funny, but I am not one of those folks, so Borat was definitely a one and done for me.

5.) The Revenant (2015)
I loved this movie when I saw it in theaters, and consider this unconventional western about survival and vengeance in an unexplored frontier one of the most impressive films in recent memory. The cinematography is stunning, the cast is amazing (Tom Hardy is so immersed he’s unrecognizable, and Leo got his long-deserved Oscar for his role) and the plot is engrossing, but it is a slog. The film feels as exhausting and grueling to the viewer as Hugh Glass’s journey through the wilderness is portrayed, from the bear attack to the self-soldering to the final showdown in the snow. That’s not a bad thing – if anything, it’s only more indicative of brilliant film-making – but it is not a film I have any desire to see again, because, as the title implies, the film remains with the viewer long after the credits have rolled, and I don’t need to see it again to remember how much of an impact it had on me. I can still recall the opening shot – that long, continuous take – fairly vividly, proof of just how powerful the film is and how it sticks in your memory.

6.) Grave of the Fireflies (1998)
UGH, the tears. I watched this film on a portable DVD player in the car on a 6 hour road trip, and I started ugly-crying in an Arby’s drive-thru when I got to the end. Easily one of the most powerful war-themed movies I’ve ever seen, and one of Studio Ghibli’s finest, Grave of the Fireflies shows the impact of WWII on a pair of young Japanese children, Seita and Setsuko. This movie is not for the faint of heart; the animation is beautiful, the story is equal parts moving and haunting, it wrenches the heartstrings in uncomfortable, yet important ways, and it shows a perspective of war that is far different from films that focus on valor and victory and rising against the odds to defeat the “bad guy.”  It’s difficult to imagine, after seeing both, that another film on this list (Saving Private Ryan) and this film technically take place during the same war. I highly recommend this film to anyone who is interested in the various perspectives on war and WWII in particular, but it’s definitely not one that I intend to watch over and over again.

7.) Un Chien Andalou (Andalusian Dog) (1929)
Look, an obscure title! I am a snob!
Anyway, I probably would watch this surrealist film again, but not in its entirety. As in, I never, ever want to see the eyeball cutting scene ever again. Ever. It is one of the worst things I have ever seen onscreen. The rest of it is worth examining again, though, because it’s really f*cking weird and it provokes a lot of thought. There’s a ton of artistic imagery and unique ideas presented in this film that are very cool and wonderfully bizarre, like a trip into some twisted version of the Twilight Zone. But if I ever do see it again, I am skipping the eyeball scene. Just trust me on this – if you are squeamish, DO NOT WATCH THIS FILM.

8.) Le Sang des bêtes (Blood of the Beasts) (1949)
Look! Another obscure film!
This film, which is an artistic exploration into the contrast between idyllic Parisian life and what happens within the walls of slaughterhouses is the main impetus behind my decision to convert to pescatarianism in 2013. I am no longer a pescatarian for health reasons, but the image of a cow being killed is forever imprinted in my brain thanks to this film. It’s a unique, 20-minute long juxtaposition of surrealist and realist imagery and seeing it left a profound impact on me. I’m glad I saw it, but never, ever want to see it again.




In keeping with a poetry theme for the week, here’s a selection from my CW class in college.


One should never be just anything.
Things are never just fine.
That’s just a saying that keeps
prying curiosities at bay.
We are never just tired.
Fatigue is gauged by more
than how long our eyes are closed at night.
And there’s always subtle truth behind
every just kidding.
Maybe if we all try to just be honest…
No. Just no.
That’s just silly.
When a friend says, “Just tell me!”
You can never do just that.
It’s always more, or just a little less.
And for our mistakes
we chalk them up
to being just human.
It’s just an excuse.
One should never say they are just something.
When they are really so much more.

Just saying.



Today, 2/9/2018, is the LAST day to enter the Amazon giveaway for the Kindle version of my YA novel, I’m With You. Must be 18+ and live in the US, though I hope to do an international contest soon. Here is the link to enter! LINK.

Blue Screen

Thought I’d share a poem I wrote several years ago for an English assignment when my old desktop computer (which I still have and still works) was constantly blue screening, much to my frustration. 


Blue Screen

Go away, blue screen.
With your white words
that no one with average intelligence understands.
I’m trying to do my homework.
And you wipe it all away, blue screen.
With one ‘whirr.’
My hard work disappears.
How dare you.
I forgot to save.
And you shut my computer down.
Before I’ve finished.
And now you’re staring at me.
In all your blue glory.
Making me run my computer in safe mode.
You’ve taken over.
A digital dictator in cobalt blue.
Has a virus made you come, blue screen?
I’m fairly sure I ran a protection program
to make you happy and safe, always
Very well…I’ll do it again.

What’s that? Nothing’s wrong?
Then why are you here, blue screen?
Seriously, this is due tomorrow.
And that is due next week.
I can’t even listen to music
if you keep popping up, blue screen!
I have a s,fjaldgj,smfnbsjhg: error?
Is that even English?
I have erased all of my possibly dangerous files.
And deleted many programs, just for you.
And yet you remain,
taunting me with your blueness,
and incoherent white-lettered babble.
Oh, blue screen…
Can you not see that you are unwanted?
Go away.
And you will never glow blue again.
Don’t think I won’t do it.

It’s been a while, blue screen.
You haven’t shut down my computer yet today.
It’s been a nice reprieve
from your teal tyranny.
Have you decided to be nice?
I find that difficult to believe.
You’ve never been nice before.
I will wait.

And yet, you still don’t come.
Perhaps now I will accomplish something!
All of my homework will be done!
Without constantly pressing ‘restart!’
Without my anguished cries of ‘Why?!’
Without that annoying blue screen popping up
at the most inconvenient of tim –

Curse you, blue screen.


I’m hosting an Amazon giveaway for kindle copies of my YA novel, I’m With You. 20 copies are up for grabs, and the giveaway ends February 9th, 2018. No cost or special requirement to enter, you just have to be over 18 and live in the US! I hope to run an international one soon.

If you’d like to enter for a chance to win, here is the LINK! (Amazon)

What’s in a Name?

Nicknames are a curious thing. Monikers earned due to a specific event, a casual simplification of a name, or a specific trait. Though I’m mostly referred to by my actual given name, I’ve had a few nicknames over the years, and while some have lingered, others have faded away – for the better, in some cases.

Briefly, in my later years of elementary school, I was called “Alf.” It’s a shortening of my first name and the first initial of my last name. It’s also the name of a furry extraterrestrial sitcom character from the 80’s, to whom I like to think I bear no resemblance. This one didn’t last very long, though – only a year or so, if that.

After an accident during a track meet when I was fifteen, I was plagued by a recurring injury that resulted in the disastrous end to my athletic career, a few stints with crutches, and reconstructive knee surgery. Due to my less than stellar walking ability for those months, a handful of friends dubbed me “Gimpy.” Other variations of this name were used, but “Gimpy” was the most frequent, and that stuck from sophomore year of high school through senior year, long after my limping stopped. Fortunately, I have since shed it, and no one has referred to me this way . Looking back, though the nickname was imposed upon me with a measure of friendly affection, it’s actually pretty offensive, so I’m glad I don’t look over my shoulder at a shout of “Gimpy!” anymore.

In college, a friend gave me the nickname “Allenson.” The impetus of this one is foggy, but I think it had something to do with Vikings? I’m not entirely sure of the circumstances, but I do remember it was hilarious.

I actually used to detest being called “Allie.” I used to think it was too “girly” sounding for me since I was a huge tomboy growing up, so whenever folks called me “Allie” in an effort to be nice or spark a rapport, they were met with my wrath. It’s a variant of my actual name, but none of my family ever called me Allie in my early years. However, when I got to kindergarten there was another little girl with the same first name, and she ended up with the shortened moniker while I got to keep the long version, a distinction which lasted through the entirety of high school. Now, I do not mind being called “Allie” as an adult – I wouldn’t have chosen it as my pseudonym, otherwise. Most people in my life don’t call me Allie anyway, except for the few folks who only know me for my writing – it’s actually made it somewhat easier to separate my personal/business life. As a writer, I also give a lot of my characters nicknames – either due to their actions, or traits, or because I can’t be bothered to type their full name out all the time.

People closest to me (family, close friends) commonly refer to me as “Al.” It’s the kind of nickname that sounds wrong when it comes from the lips of an acquaintance, or from someone I’m not very familiar with. If I go out and meet someone who proceeds to call me “Al” without prompting, or without knowing much about it, it grates on me – in a “You have not earned the right to refer to me as such” type of way. I’m not sure why that is, or why I’m so particular about it – perhaps because “Al” is the most personal nickname I’ve ever had. It’s an “If you don’t know me, don’t call me that” nickname.

Nicknames can be adored, abhorred, earned, given, or inherent – and some carry a unique origin story with them. What’s your unique nickname story?