Confessions of an Antisocial Writer. Cafes? Don't do it. For he love of all things Didion! I mean, I get it, there is this undeniable sex appeal. This intrique: scattering your notes across that old bistro set, the heady demitasse begging for your lips: what's the WiFi code? Nah, I write longhand.
I'm not here to pretend to be some guru or act like I know anymore than you do because, believe me, the older I get, the less I know. Funny how that works when the world is running wild with "twenty-somethings" peddling Nirvana and life-coaching: really just give me $99 and I promise you'll feel better. Go ahead, try it.
A strange thing happens when you begin to contemplate the end. It’s as if setting such a definitive goal opens the world to endless possibilities: a phone is buzzing,
reveal yourself: what are some of your challenges, demands for 2018? I want the juicy details! let’s get through this together.
I will be confident -- not sad sap, sipping quietly in corner bar. I will be, act, speak with intention. I will be finished, will shop my novel.
Novelist. Reader. Archaeologist. After high school I hit the road. A spontaneous bus ride to Mexico City led me into the hazy mountains, the deep emerald forests of Chiapas where I discovered the beautiful and heartbreaking world of the Maya (yes, they still exist) and found something deeply rooted, down in my heart of hearts: A need to be part of something greater, to commit myself to people less fortunate.
Whether you’re downing books, brew, or both, I’m wishing your a wonderful holiday season and merry Christmas,
I mean, it's not cheating if nothing happens. Oh, but emotions run deep. Which begs the question: What’s worse, an emotional or a physical affair?
Excerpt from The Outsider: A Memoir? "The sky out my window is that fiery red which makes the heart swell with life and there it is again: that sensational expanding within my chest, rising to my throat, gripping and stinging my eyes."
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*unedited from rough draft (The Outsider: A Novel) I woke up one morning in a state of complete despair and found myself debating the absurdity of carrying on like this when I had options. They were clear as day and night and manifest out of who-knows-where: One, I could kill myself. Two, I could go … Continue reading One: I Could Kill Myself | Two: I Could Go To Africa –scene from The Outsider, A Novel.
"I want to work in revelations, not just spin silly tales for money. I want to fish as deep down as possible into my own subconscious in the belief that once that far down, everyone will understand because they are the same that far down."
A wild existential crisis. The narrator is living in the woods of Norway, maybe 1890's. Going insane with every passing day while falling in love with a Lords daughter. Dark, funny, beyond its time. Norwegian authors are still years ahead.
Happy birthday to the mad Gonzo saint. Let's cheers to this mind of threaded insanities, the functional junkie. A toast of Wild Turkey, a drive through "bat country" and the knowledge that...