There are currents and waves in me. I can build Rome in a day and reach for the fiddle over the next three months and see it rendered in embers. Maybe it’s ADHD, who knows? Or maybe it’s the underlying assumption that we live in a cold, vast and indifferent universe and with the exception of people coming here ISO, no one will read this.
Wow, how depressing. And it’s not cracked seven a.m. yet. But the dawn has lifted the dark and the waves of the Hudson River lap not at my front steps, so all in all, it’s a good day.
I want to post regularly to this blog, because it’s a hip thing and everyone is doing it. And all those in the know, you know, the ones making bank off ebooks that tell other aspiring writers how to make bank off ebooks, they say you need a platform like a werewolf needs a silverproof vest.
But I don’t know… my life is in the living, I guess. Some writers go on and on about the books they’ve read, very proud of their connection to their local bookstore. But I don’t read like that. I read everything in front of my eyes compulsively, and I absorb it. And I tend to gorge out on non-fiction stuff, articles and the like. I’d rather learn how to fix a jet engine than explore metaphor in Northwestern crime fiction.
Do I ever read fiction? Some; usually if someone asks me too. And it brings up a point: can you write fiction if you don’t read fiction? And I say to that, if you don’t believe life itself is a fucking story, you’re fiction might be greater than mine. So I don’t know if that’s a yes or a no.
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