Soon enough, or not at all

Walrus.

I need a drink. My hands are starting to tremble.

One noun, one verb and you have a sentence. Can a story be that easy? Can “She died.” Be counted as a story? I mean, does it imply something larger? Who the fuck knows.

Extra spaces mean extra intent.

I am not embarrassed by the scars that line my face like a badly folded map that has been tossed, ignored on the floorboard, forgotten in the heaps of cigarette ash and crumpled foil strewn over dead hours as the truck traces its way past boarded shops and burned out houses

Her memory, my pain and the white line form an ancient triptych of need hot desire pulled like sweet agony and sweat from the taut flesh of the quivering hi-way at dusk their broken blades laid out like shards of bone thrown on the red earth as dark spreads over the horizon

The passenger seat carries a bottle, which needs no protection from the belt or air-bag and never fucks with the radio or complains about the air conditioning or asks the difficult question about our destination. We’ll get there soon enough

something shiny

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Gar

At my writing workshop I tried to get people talking about crows. Someone mentioned pelicans. Weirdly this made me think of gar. I did a little flash piece about gar. Now I’m thinking about expanding it into something bigger.

Girls are a mystery.

She has a gash on her leg.

Trick with a Knife is having a Tao Lin Contest.

Conversations

I pose an interesting question and maybe a conversation gets started. Lets share ideas.

Tonight is the night that I drink. Wait – that’s every night.

I have a load of old subs that are still pending. This is killing me. It includes three book queries.

I See Imaginary Children

I get these obsessions. They overtake my writing, work their way in and force me. For a while it was Quetzalcoatl (to be specific, my own weird idea of what Quetzalcoatl should be like). That snake bird god thing showed up constantly in the things that I wrote. I’d star a story about a failing relationship and out of nowhere the beast would show up. Almost f his own volition.

Then it was crows. I thought about crows all the time, and everything I wrote somehow involved crows. It took me months to write that out. I had to expel the crows through the writing.

And alligators.

Now I am obsessed, controlled by alligators. Not a specific alligator. Not a real alligator. Rather this is the alligator; my conception of the perfect, god alligator. An imaginary alligator. It haunts my dreams. Even when I dream about something unrelated to alligators, the thing creeps in as an allusion.

Now, I know that we all (I guess) obsess about sex and death and that sex and death have a big role to play in writing, but my question is: does this happen to every writer? Do you all get weird ideas and obsessions that creep into your writing? If so, is this a good thing? How do you deal with it?

Help?

What it takes

I asked why people write.

Now this: what does it take to be a writer (not like a Dan Brown hack writer, but an actual writer)? Must you have known pain? Loss? Agony? Do you need to be mad? Is masochism necessary? How’s about sadism? If you break down and take the Zoloft, will the need vanish? It did for me. Do you need booze, or drugs, or fucking, or ripped flesh and splatters of blood on the walls? Can you write if you are comfortable and happy? Do you need to listen to sad songs and chain smoke or can coffee and TeeVee do the job? Help me out. I must know.

risqué Crows and the like

Why the fuck am I fascinated with crows? Sure, they are the prettiest carrion bird, and there are more varieties of them than can be counted by a rational, sober person. Somehow Linnaeus mis-categorized them as song birds, but what the hell did he know, right?

Twizzlers can be used during sex.

I’m writing about crows – I envision a massive series of stories and poems about crows. I’m doing this because I am slightly stuck on the novel (I’m re-working several sections of the novel – they seem like short stories, so maybe I’ll try to get them published somewhere, then when the book is published it can have that cool note: portions of this book appeared, in different form, in X, Y, Z and sexy places as well).

A girl I know has risqué photos of herself on the web. I find that arousing.

I finally saw Watchmen. I liked it okay I “guess” but having read the graphic novel, the movie was a disappointment.

There are foxes near my house and they are not shy at all.

For some reason there are cum stains on my copy of War and Peace

There was a slouching lobster out on the street. It kept looking at me sideways and I worried that it would beg for change. I can’t change anything, so I turned up my collar and hurried past.

I beat up a Wal-Mart greeter for saying hello with a fake smile.

For some reason there are cum stains on my copy of War and Peace. This makes me wonder what people do in my house when I am out. Maybe it was the cat.

A friend of mine claims that he is building what he calls a sodomy machine. Apparently it involves a sandpaper shaft and retractable barbs. I don’t know about this.

Miller High Life IS the champagne of beers.

I am writing every single day. Waits and Bukowski is moving along. I feel good about this. I also feel good about cheese.

The Zombie Research Blog is fun.

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