I've come to the realization that the only way I'll have time to do all the things I need to do...write all the stories I want to write...is to stop eating, give up my apartment, go homeless, steal power and WiFi from Starbucks when I'm able to beg enough money for a Chai Tea and cookie, and not work. At all. Just hold up a sign at street corners -- "Starving artist writing the next great American novel set in Ireland -- please help."
I guess I could live in my car instead of on the street; it's got an AC adaptor. Just walk away from my debts and double-dog-dare 'em to find me. Take bottles in for for redemption to fill the tank and the belly. For sure I'd lose these extra pounds. Not being able to buy Dunkin Donuts means you don't get to eat 'em.
I may wind up that way, anyway, when I hit 66, since it's entirely possible the GOP will do away with Social Security before I have a chance to touch it. That party's become so psychotic, it's actually scaring me. You can't reason with the insane, and a democracy's participants need some ability to reason in order for it to function. My youngest brother's at that point, jobless and close to homeless, and my younger brother refuses to lift a finger to help him. Well...if he joins me then I'll need to get a bigger car. A Civic ain't got the room for two.
Meanwhile...I'm missing something in ...Owen Taylor, and I cannot figure out what it is. Maybe I'm too close to it. Or burnt out. Or too blind in general. I don't know. The story flows but I don't sense much in the way of undercurrent...and it needs more than this surface placidity to bring the reader in. But I can't figure out how to do it. Can't see what little jolt would help the story work.
I think I'll break out the booze, this weekend; maybe that'll crank up the volume enough to blow away the shadows in my brain.
I guess I could live in my car instead of on the street; it's got an AC adaptor. Just walk away from my debts and double-dog-dare 'em to find me. Take bottles in for for redemption to fill the tank and the belly. For sure I'd lose these extra pounds. Not being able to buy Dunkin Donuts means you don't get to eat 'em.
I may wind up that way, anyway, when I hit 66, since it's entirely possible the GOP will do away with Social Security before I have a chance to touch it. That party's become so psychotic, it's actually scaring me. You can't reason with the insane, and a democracy's participants need some ability to reason in order for it to function. My youngest brother's at that point, jobless and close to homeless, and my younger brother refuses to lift a finger to help him. Well...if he joins me then I'll need to get a bigger car. A Civic ain't got the room for two.
Meanwhile...I'm missing something in ...Owen Taylor, and I cannot figure out what it is. Maybe I'm too close to it. Or burnt out. Or too blind in general. I don't know. The story flows but I don't sense much in the way of undercurrent...and it needs more than this surface placidity to bring the reader in. But I can't figure out how to do it. Can't see what little jolt would help the story work.
I think I'll break out the booze, this weekend; maybe that'll crank up the volume enough to blow away the shadows in my brain.
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