I am so flipping angry.
I don’t know what what, why, towards whom (most likely, myself) or how long it’s been going on, but it’s there, burning in the back of my throat till I want to scream. I can feel my insides coiled with tension, turning into tighter and tighter rings as if the stress of the many lives I want to live, my hopes and dreams, have banded together and turned putrid – morphed into a cancerous, carnivorous, voracious monster ready to cut me open.
Okay, so I lied – Continue reading
I know I have something to say.
I’m not sure what that thing is. The words aren’t exactly falling off the tips of my fingers, typing themselves onto this page. I can feel that my heart is racing, beating in a rhythm unreasonably rapid, and even when I’m not conscious of it, I’m worrying constantly about how I worry constantly about the future. It’s (un)shockingly exhausting.
It feels like I’m permanently anxious, guys, and the fear and the stress are giving me very real back problems, which is a sentence I had hoped I wouldn’t have to say until I was 40+. But here I am, barely grazing 24, and apparently my apprehension has decided to tuck itself into my shoulder blades, to keep them tense and angry and hurting, always. There’s a literal burden on my back, pressure coiling into a million hard knots to remind me that I’m sitting here in fear, determined to hope that my novel with drag itself out of me if I only keep my fingers pressed to a keyboard.
I have a favorite creative writing teacher who would laugh at me when I worried. He’d quote Oscar Wilde at me – Life is far too important a thing ever to talk seriously about. The same wisdom’s everywhere, in literary or colloquial form: take a chill pill, don’t take Continue reading
Life is sometimes hard. Things go wrong, in life and in love and in business and in friendship and in health and in all the other ways that life can go wrong. And when things get tough, this is what you should do.
Make good art.
Sometimes, we need a reminder.
In the vein of Joe Brainard
The most persuasive of stories.
“As I pee, sir, I see Pisa!”
When in need of a laxative, drink.
“I was a vampire fetishist before it was cool.”
Buying new underwear.
I can’t tell my level of drink
Is hat a problem
Where are you going?
Is this what being a writer is?
Rows of nothingness and existential dread.
I live from coffee cup to coffee cup
And then once in a while I eat a muffin.
It’s dead here
And I bleed tears.
Yes, all of these things
If it makes you feel better I’m a much sore(r) loser than you are
Kk back to my caffeine haze
I forgot to buy pie though
I don’t deserve pie!
But no I’m fine.
Just read a case where the defendant robbed a convenience store, held the cashier up at gun point and when they only had $50, he said “I was just kidding, never mind, forget this ever happened.”
I don’t know why I took it personally
I am so tired can we kill the written word
A poem composed entirely of texts sent to or by me!
Easily the most fun work I’ve ever written/composed.
I’m totally making this a thing.
Wear your face to work today.
In the vein of Yoko Ono, who deserves her own post.
You might not write well every day, but you can always edit a bad page.
You can’t edit a blank page.
It’s a new year.
I’ll admit that I don’t actually have any vows. I sort of made a blanket resolution: that I would find whatever the thing is that I have recently recognized I’m internally seeking. Solace in myself? Comfort in the knowledge of being fulfilled? self-sufficient? strong? independent enough to be sung about in songs? Or just knowing that I am my own person? I don’t know – I just have an overwhelming need to search for that satisfaction I’m craving so dearly.
But you know what I’ve realized? I think writing’s going to be the thing that helps me find it, that acorn heaven my squirrel self is so aching for*. It fills me in so many ways: it’s a friend, when I need to get something off my chest; it’s meditation, when I need to find something calm in the midst of the chaotic; it’s medicine, when I’m aching from loneliness or seething in anger; it’s thrilling, when I have an adventure sinking its way onto the page off the tapping of my fingertips. And at all times, every day, no matter what I write – I feel like I am participating in that moment in creation. At all times, no matter how craptastic the words on the page, I am blending life and art.
2015 was my year of deciding to fake it. I dropped the comfortable paycheck life and moved across the country to join an MFA program; I took a holy-grail sized leap of faith** in myself, and I’ve been whistling Continue reading