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.
"My sudden love for these two women occupies entirely separate philosophies that i’m only now beginning to understand: Like a rift in the multiverse of the self. Shay represents stability. Comfort. Success. Whereas Ingrid claims the part of me which belongs to the world. An manifestation of my desire to be free. to get away. … Continue reading “In My Heart of Hearts, I Will Always Love You.” | Deep in Memoir: The Inner Novelist Meets the Conflicted Writer.
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."
*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.
Bohemian nights in Valencia where the gypsies shred violins into the coming dark