An Inspired Chat with Halo Scot of Tri-state area

We’re looking forward to introducing you to Halo Scot. Check out our conversation below.

Halo, we’re thrilled to have you with us today. Before we jump into your intro and the heart of the interview, let’s start with a bit of an ice breaker: What is a normal day like for you right now?
We ride at dawn. (Well, winter dawn.) My alarm goes off at 6:50am and 6:53am, because we start the day with chaos. Brush teeth, take vitamins, toss in a handful of dark chocolate chips (as one does), and pound a shot of coffee to hotwire the gray matter.

With exaggerating grunting, and an operatic clearing of the throat, I stagger into my kids’ rooms and greet them with a cross between a dad joke, a line from a sci-fi B-movie, and a nineties EDM chorus. They awaken with either a hug, a hello, or a disembodied finger pointing at me to leave their room from under the covers. If I am lucky, I also receive an eye-roll and a deeply frustrated “Mom, no.”

Satisfied that my stirring rendition of “Be My Lover” was met with proper annoyance, I start working: open the laptop, log in, defibrillate the brain. The offspring get ready for school in the background as I plunge into the virtual carnival of emails, content management, web development, and sacrificial offerings to the tech gods to avoid the dreaded Blue Screen of Death, Spinning Beach Ball of Doom, Connectivity Krakens, Keyboard Refusal to Type “R,” and Accidental Microphone Unmute While Belching.

I step away for a few minutes to walk my kids to the bus stop at the end of our driveway. We exchange riveting one-sided small talk such as “so, six seven” and “I hear ‘tough’ is the new ‘sigma’” and “we used VHS tapes when I was a kid.” After I tell them I love them, would burn the world for them, and pledge my undying, eternal allegiance, I wave at the bus only to realize my kids are on the other side, so I am waving at a random boy who stares me down with an impressive commitment to apathy. Then I return to work.

My breakfast is a bowl of oatmeal with honey drizzled on top—an attempt at artful drizzling, then a globby surrender. I have either peach or chamomile tea, because chaos starts with an ignited digestive system. The rest of the morning passes with more tech sacrifices and Office Space memes—I work full-time from home and am grateful my team encourages my Star Wars obsession and random Italian wine recommendations (the house wine from osteriadellorsa.it, you’re welcome).

During my lunch break, I run. I do not run well or fast. I have short legs, a long torso, and a wide back built for harvesting grapes and kneading dough. But I love the freedom, the endorphins, the ability to turn on my very mature, very professional playlists named “MEDITATE & BE POSITIVE!!!!!” and “Lightsaber Duel” and “DANCE, BABY” and “Godzilla.” Then I shower in the most unattractive way possible, a drowned rat instead of a glistening jaguar, and return to work till the kids’ bus arrives.

They invade at 4pm. A molting of backpacks, a shedding of jackets, a hail of shoes, and they’re home. Then it’s a blur of cook, eat, cook, eat, cook, eat, homework, reading, their showers, bath-time therapy, shampoo explosions, conditioner eruptions, explaining why Pluto should still be considered a planet, agreeing that Godzilla would most definitely benefit from psychoanalysis, researching how to make wax candy and finding a disturbing Reddit thread named “I want to eat a candle,” backpedaling, deleting our search history, telling them you can’t trust the internet, reassuring them that our house is not haunted (only on Tuesdays), asking follow-up questions to the “my friend at school had hives and a fever” discussion, snuggling with them while they say they love me so much they want to cut off my face and wear it when I’m dead, then slowly retreating from the dormant tweens.

Around 9pm, I collapse. Heating pad. Cheap, off-brand Papasan from Walmart. Kindle. Latest book. Fan noise in the background. Sometimes a ten-minute bout of wall-staring to decompress and reset. Asleep by 10–10:30pm. Or earlier, face smashed into my pillow, stress dreams about all my teeth falling out of my head ready on speed dial.

Somewhere in the chaos, I find time to write. Usually in fifteen-minute sprints, thirty if I’m lucky. Headphones in, “WRITE FOR GLORY” playlist on, four documents open to pretend I’m organized when, in reality, I just outline so I can throw it out and tumble down a more ridiculous path.

It’s hard, I won’t lie. Hard to focus, hard to carve out time, hard to stop the spirals that ask: “is this good, is this terrible, should I bother, why am I writing, who cares about this, what am I doing with my life, what happens when we die, when will life get easier, why, why, why, why, why?”

But then I see a drawing the kids made of me as a formidable demon squid. Then I hear my kids kick the wall in their sleep, scaring the crap out of me. Then I remember they’re alive, I’m alive, this is all so insanely miraculous, and I’m lucky to have this chance to live, and learn, and grow (cue HomeGoods throw pillow).

Can you briefly introduce yourself and share what makes you or your brand unique?
I am a dark fiction writer who endeavors to make readers ugly-sob, wail “how could you?!” to the sky, and snort-laugh about a digestion joke that took an inappropriate amount of time to compose. Emotional mutilation is my main goal. Plus psychological devastation. And heart-wrenching anguish, of course.

At the moment, I’m wading in several book monsters. Here are the elevator pitches for when I corner friends in enclosed spaces after they ask me how it’s going, what’s new, then I bludgeon their ears with my mortifying ideas for two hours and thirty-seven minutes uninterrupted.

BLEED ME TILL I RISE is a dark fantasy romance based on the Spartacus slave rebellion. In the unremembered past, the Human Empire has enslaved fae for centuries, fusing iron to their bones to mute their magic. Sol used to be High King of the Skull Court, but humans stole him from his realm three hundred years ago, and he has served them ever since. When Io, High Queen of the Wild Hunt, is captured at last, her fierce spirit ignites fresh hope in Sol. Together, they plot a slave uprising that will shatter the foundation of the Human Empire. Hatred boils between the species as rebellion rises, and where rebellion leads, war follows.

Teaser Quote: “Survive as a slave, or die as a king.”

CROOKED CROWNS AND WICKED GRAVES is a queer retelling of Dante’s INFERNO and the founding of Rome. On a dying, night-cursed world, atop an empire’s shattered grave, two monstrous twins fight their cruel fate. With a vicious, apocalyptic prophecy looming over their future, Romi and Remi attend Graveguard, a magic academy, to train as protectors of the realm. Amid a series of trials based on Dante’s INFERNO, the twins advance and clash. When Romi falls in love with his professor, Remi marks his distance as an act of war, and their final battle begins.

Teaser Quote: “I will not go quietly. I’ve come too far to fall again, and rage is all that remains.”

LET US DIE IN A SEA OF BONES is a dark, urban, sapphic romantasy that’s THE LITTLE MERMAID meets MAD MAX: FURY ROAD with HAZBIN HOTEL vibes. An underwater death race sparks a feverish sapphic romance, and the sea witch gets the girl, of course. Lark should be dead. She was stabbed, drowned, and ditched like trash, yet she survived—to her savior’s chagrin. Renn, the siren queen, is unimpressed with the beached human bleeding on her sand. The ocean has hidden her island city for millennia; Kasadon is lost, not meant to be found. Lark’s appearance upsets a fragile balance between land and sea, one that could destroy everything. So Renn offers Lark a deal: Win the race, and become a siren. Lark accepts under one condition: If they win, kiss her, but if they lose, kill her.

Teaser Quote: “You are meant to bring the world to its knees, and I am meant to hold your hand while you do so.”

THE DEMONS HELL FORGOT is a dark, urban, sapphic sci-fantasy based on the Prometheus myth. An empathy stealer and a gravity wielder circle the drain of a dying empire, caught in the claws of a hopscotch revolution where no one is exactly who they seem. For fans of ANDOR and ARCANE. A “Vulcans gone wrong” vibe. (Still very much in progress and not polished. Might rage-quit. To be determined.)

Teaser Quote: “Rage is the death of all gods, and fear is the death of all kings.”

BUG is…weird. It’s a cutting satire about the burnt-out millennial fantasy, a scathing fever dream of start-up culture, a declaration of war on normalcy, but it’s been sitting at ~3000 words for months, so it might remain a fever dream forever and not become reality. It did help me punch a writing slump in the face, so some WIPs have different purposes than production.

Teaser Quote: “I want her. I want to be her. I want to sew myself into her skin and make myself a crib of her bones. I want to cry her tears, bleed her blood, and she doesn’t even know my name.” (I told you it’s weird.)

THANKS FOR SPENDING TIME IN MY CREEPY ELEVATOR.

Amazing, so let’s take a moment to go back in time. What part of you has served its purpose and must now be released?
My uterus. If anyone wants one, mine has served its purpose and is now in storage. Apologies for my disturbing sense of humor.

In all seriousness, I should release most of what I’ve internalized, organs aside, and should purge everything that has become too heavy to carry: cynicism, insecurity, second-guessing, self-distrust, never-ending thought spirals, et cetera.

In one of my WIPs, I wrote, “You are more than the sum of your broken parts,” and that is what I am trying to believe. I held onto pain, onto past hurts and slights, because I wanted my pain to mean something, to have a reason grander than “life sucks sometimes, kid” (said in Clint Eastwood’s voice).

Then one of my characters whispered, “You don’t need to be perfect to be loved,” and I succumbed to the delightful insanity and monstrous hunger of deranged creativity.

If you could say one kind thing to your younger self, what would it be?
It’s not worth it. All that pain, self-hate, inner fury, starvation, unquenchable hunger, plummeting self-worth, poisonous ambition, mutilating self-doubt, and imprisoning self-sabotage—it’s not worth it, kid (said in Morgan Freeman’s voice).

And yet, you will need it. Struggle will give you perseverance, resilience. Suffering will bring you strength. Hardship will grant you compassion. You will find the beauty of imperfection after a string of rage-quitting, sob-strewn, and anguish-ridden walks of shame.

So hold on, because one day, you will need to hold others. Hold on, because one day, your son will tell you that Godzilla is a woman since she is fierce and brave and strong. Hold on, because one day, your daughter will sleepwalk, finding you every time, even unconscious, then shriek at you to get out of the trumpet (which is fair—dream me goes on many adventures). Hold on, because one day, your kids will trust you to make homemade candy even though you have a history of burning microwave nachos, creating fudge that resembles cat vomit, and baking cupcakes that look like unicorn diarrhea (beware the sprinkles).

Hold on, because one day, you will find a joy so severe it eclipses the sun.

YES, IT’S MAUDLIN. YOU WILL READ IT AND WEEP HAPPY TEARS, BECAUSE WE ARE IN OUR EMOTIONALLY AVAILABLE PHASE NOW.

Also, watch STAR WARS.

Sure, so let’s go deeper into your values and how you think. What’s a belief you used to hold tightly but now think was naive or wrong?
Power through. I used to hold the ironclad belief that I should always power through, push through, move faster, go, go, go, go, go, do more, be better, the only thing holding me back is me.

Then I burned out. Hard. Several times. And I realized that being gentle with myself was far more important—and far more productive—than being a drill sergeant who self-flagellated whenever mortality showed.

So now, I rest and try my best not to feel guilty. Now, I relax and tell those pesky voices to shut tf up, or I’ll stress-bake apple muffins poorly, and no one needs the bowel-loosening power of those slimy, lumpy abominations.

As Dr. Ishiro Serizawa said in Godzilla: King of the Monsters, “Sometimes the only way to heal our wounds is to make peace with the demons who created them.”

Okay, so let’s keep going with one more question that means a lot to us: What pain do you resist facing directly?
Grief. This year was rough, as it was for many. I lost three people in less than four months, and my mind isn’t ready to process that level of loss at once. So I chip away at it, day by day. Avoid the war, but accept each battle. Sip the pain, little by little, because all at once, it’s suffocating. I either feel nothing, or I feel everything, and it’s safer to feel nothing sometimes, to function, to live in a world where grief is a five-day, sorry-for-your-loss schedule.

I have the massive urge to stop talking about this now, to make a flippant joke, pull my hood over my ears, and run away, screaming, “IT CAN’T GET ME!” But I promised I’d do scary things this year, so here we are. Plus, I just rewatched ANDOR, and you can’t not feel empowered when you hear “oppression is the mask of fear,” and “the death of truth is the ultimate victory of evil,” and “I burn my life to make a sunrise that I know I’ll never see.”

So, Stellan Skarsgård, let’s make this sunrise.

In early April, I lost my grandfather, my dad’s dad. He passed peacefully the day before my birthday, and even though I’m in my thirties, even though I’ve had the luxury of decades with him, it still hit me like a brick wall. Every year on my birthday, no matter how old I was, no matter where in the world I was, he’d call me and sing “Happy Birthday.” Every. Single. Year. This year was the first year he couldn’t. I called his voicemail just to hear his voice, scrolled through emails he’d written, amazed that he could make me feel so seen, so heard, even though I am only one of his ten grandchildren. He was love incarnate, incandescent joy.

In June, I lost my grandmother, my mom’s mom, my last grandparent on both sides. She passed peacefully surrounded by my mom, aunt, sister, and me the day after my kids’ last day of school. She was a constant, beloved presence in my life, the paragon of unflinching strength and fearless compassion. She saw the truth in people and helped them shine. She stood up for what was right even when it hurt. And she stood up for us with the power of a thousand generations. Thanksgiving was her favorite holiday, and this was our first year without her.

At the end of July, I lost a dear childhood friend. She was my age, married, with two young kids. I don’t remember meeting her, because she was always there, since early childhood, from before I could form memories. We did gymnastics, danced, got our ears pierced, rode bikes, had sleepovers, and graduated high school together. There is an emptiness where those memories are now, one that aches every time I realize she’s gone.

To be brutally, uncomfortably honest, it’s rattling, jarring, to lose three people that were such pillars of my life, to live on while they can’t, to exist while they are no longer here. So yes, there is a locked chest of pain that I resist fully facing, that I wait to fully open, because in order to give proper tribute to that grief, to those people, I cannot physically or psychologically process the depth of those emotions while still functioning for my kids and my job.

I know this is raw, naked, honest, vulnerable. But every time I talk about someone I’ve lost, it opens a conversation with others. We’ve all lost someone, by death or tragedy. We’re all carrying baggage that can drown us if we let it. It’s part of being human, mortal, fragile, alive.

So for my grandfather, I blast opera while I’m sautéing garlic and sing “Happy Birthday” at the top of my lungs.

For my grandmother, I find the wonder in every day, sometimes with her favorite Heineken, standing when it’s easier to sit, speaking when it’s easier to remain silent.

For my friend, I dance in the kitchen, host sleepovers, and hold my kids close.

So now, I close the box and retreat till I can open it a little more, a little further, grieving and celebrating in equal measure.

I am grateful that I have a family where love is our religion. I am grateful that my kids are my heroes, that they always show me I am better, stronger, more than the bully that is my brain. I am grateful that I get to fly in this flesh vessel on the outskirts of the Milky Way, existing because of a mad scientist’s lab explosion of miracles.

Anyway, it’s 4pm, and you know what that means. INVASION. FOOD EXPLOSIONS. BACKPACK ERUPTIONS. 67!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Go make that sunrise, kids. We’ve got life to live. Chaos doesn’t cause itself.

Contact Info:

• Website: https://haloscot.com
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