Tag Archives: writing life
Through the grace of repetition, the writing life grounded in the slow, wistful measures of wellspring’s fortune. Advertisements
Greyhound: A sleek, streamlined, swift-as-the-wind breed of dog. A coughing, sputtering, wheezing, smoke-blowing mutt, prone to flea infestation. I spent a great deal of my twenties canned inside the dank sweaty armpit of travel Americana: Greyhound. It was an … Continue reading
Sometimes you have to walk through the boneyard, in order to reach the garden.
Fiction is a monster. It demands, it consumes. It is a glutton. Enough is never enough. It won’t be satisfied until the unreal becomes utterly real, beyond real. Its sole desire is to usurp reality, to surpass it. It basks … Continue reading
One thing we cannot recover is time. And perhaps every writer, as a fugitive stalker, as a fool-hero on a desperate quest, sets himself this glorious, impossible task, the solvent recovery of time through the mortal fetters of a merciful … Continue reading
Pen, referencing a glossary of soul, scratches out excess to clarify Eternity, finger-holds, tenuous at best, dignify the mount of a marvelously impossible task.
As soon as your pen makes first contact with the page you have done yourself the great and holy service of destroying that viral boogeyman, Perfection, which has buried far too many acts of expression and faith, a dream-life darkened … Continue reading
By whirling reams of papered birds, the writer’s flights, short-lived, earn the keep of dreams daringly emptied.
Slowed to deepen tracks, devotion marks the way through– Time’s storied passage.
Keys to the kingdom, one graceful peck at a time– No wings required.