A Brief Poem About a Writer Who Doesn't Write—Revisited
They say—they being creative writing professors, esteemed novelists, and hacks with wordy Instagram posts alike—that writers write. Writers who get their shit out there—not all of it, but enough of it—are the real writers. True warriors of the pen and keys.
A Brief Poem About a Writer Who Doesn't Write
They say—they being creative writing professors, esteemed novelists, and hacks with wordy Instagram posts alike—that writers write. Writers who get their shit out there—not all of it, but enough of it—are the real writers. True warriors of the pen and keys.
Today’s Writer’s Life—Heroin Would be Better
I stared at the computer keyboard for a while. I reviewed some notes. I sharpened a few pencils. I drank half a pot of coffee. I chewed seven pieces of cinnamon Trident gum. I read half a chapter in one of the eight books I’m actively reading. I made some administrative phone calls. I went on a refreshing walk with the dog.
If the Royal Family has enough sense in their inbred brains to support the arrest and subsequent punishment of the Andrew Formerly Known as Prince, then American leaders ought to have equal sense to investigate and punish the other Epstein-related offenders. Or, at the very least, admit that American Power is too insulated for true justice to ever have a chance at prevailing and own up to being a criminal enterprise. Something far worse than being inbred. (Though, probably not as bad as being married to Meghan Markle.)