Thoughts about writing, and the universe.
Some stories seem to move more slowly than drying paint. They elongate scene after scene of a bland character sitting, contemplating, staring at walls. Whole novels can go by without the character doing much more than taking a sip of their watered-down beer as they contemplate the vagaries of their universes. How often do I... Continue Reading →
These enormous slugs. Disgusting, beautiful, unassuming, and everywhere. If self-judgement is alive, it is a pathogen. Risk factors for infection include writing. The exposed words form a nutrient-rich agar for the viral body, which divides and grows from word to paragraph to the whole self. Treatment is haphazard. We manage with uncertain steps. Some say... Continue Reading →
It is hard for me to just not finish a book. I hem and haw, delay. I grudgingly slog another page. There are so many books I want to read, after all--why agonize, insist on finishing one I'm not enjoying? Is it the uncertainty of how to mark it on my Goodreads account, or something... Continue Reading →
Words like trees 