Organized by Collection
Freewriting II [On Being a Writer]I might as well be dead
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for all the inspiration I've got in my head
365 days -- fuck, are sure you didn't mean a million?
What's the hardest thing about being a writer?
It's the writing, son.
Day after day
sometimes I love it,
sometimes I --
no, I never hate it.
Always love it.
Just hate a mind that won't create it.
I fell for this lie
"Someday, you'll be famous!"
Does it matter?
Do I need it?
Damn you, Amy, you paused.
It's not a real free write anymore.
[I may be crazy.
It's quite possible.
I talk to my stuffed bears.
Oh but, I don't talk to them when no one else is around,
only when people who've already signed the contract
of loving me
About the bears, I mean.
Dear citizens of the artistic world,
art is hard.
Writing is hard.
It takes humility.
To actually do it, I mean.
Anyone can be "a writer at heart"
but man, it's the practice that makes you a real one.
You've got to do it.
Every day, folks, every day.
And if you mess up, you don't give u
The Eye of the Storm: PrologueThe weather in Arizona was always fairly constant throughout the year. Heat was present, of course, but after living there for so many years its easier to feel the air as a comforting warmth rather than a blistering oven. Our front yard was covered in brown grass. So was our neighbor's. More or less, the entire block, the entire city of Tucson, shrouded itself in brown grass or rough and grisly sand.
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In retrospect, every place I'd seen in the area was that color of deep orange brown, as if the Red Rocks surrounded each square block of the city. Even now, thinking about the school buildings or the recreational swimming pools, everything seemed to bear the warm and muddy color of a penny.
Something should've ticked off the notion that my home was changing. It had never been perfect, but a comfortable place to live and a few good friends seemed to suffice.
Yet I knew something was wrong.
That day, in the Honda with my mom in the driver's seat, I saw the colors start to change.
We were jus