“We don’t discourage enough writers.”
Whether or not you’ve ever been in a writing workshop, I’ll wager you know that sentence is one you’d least like to hear after reading your piece for critique. That’s exactly the kind of thing I heard multiple times in my undergrad studies in creative writing. Not from my fellow students, from the teachers. I might have shrugged off such comments from my peers. It’s likely needless to say that I’ve got a bit of PTSD when it comes to writing.
Strangely, I’ve also got the exact antipode drive: I HAVE to write.
Continue reading “Journaling June: Prelude”
“Humans are dumb and they die easy.” —Bender Bending Rodriquez
My trashcan is a bucket of sick. It’s not surprising. I work at a K-12 school. On top of that everything outside is coated in the light green dusting of Spring. There’s only so much a body can take, even for a paragon of perfect health such as myself.
I normally don’t get sick. Simply refuse to, you see.
(one has to be firm about these things.) Continue reading “My Sick Days When I Was Green in the Lungs”
“Where am I going and why am I in this hand basket?” —Murphy
What the fuck?
I ask that question often. I ask it because I find that the life is supremely confuzling (confusing + puzzling). I’m fairly sure life is that way for everyone, but it is particularly true for me. Why “particularly” for me? Maybe it’s my Asperger’s. Maybe it’s my mediocre intelligence. Maybe the world is just fucking crazy.
(perhaps all three?)
Continue reading “What’s All This Damnable Humbuggery Then?”
There’s a lady I work with, let’s call her K, who talks to herself so much she basically narrates her life. There’s nothing necessarily wrong with this. Everyone talks to themselves at some point or another. Still, it is a little weird. I am often confused by it, wondering if she’s talking to me or not. There are two ways I can go when I’m unsure what is happening. I can say, “What?” and if she doesn’t answer I know she was not talking to me. On the other hand, if I pretend I didn’t hear and she repeats herself more than once, I know she was talking to me.
Either way it is harmless stuff albeit awkward. Continue reading “Talking to Myself”
Thirty days ago I thought, “What the hell.” I would give National Novel Writing Month another go. I had an idea for a novel I was sure would carry me through the whole month—I’m a pantser, meaning I go in without a plan or outline or anything other than a vague idea. Besides, I had nothing better to do. Continue reading “TGIO (Thank God it’s Over)”