…just so happens to be the redheaded stepchild* of recovery?
In creative writing 101, they didn’t let us write genre fiction (i.e. detective stories, space wars, racy romance smut). In photography 101, they didn’t let us take pictures of flowers. When I worked at an animal shelter, they didn’t let us name dogs Duke or Sophie. Clichés are less likely to be read, looked at, and yes, less likely to be adopted (take that literally and otherwise).
I have closet clichéophilia. They make me cringe when I see them in published pieces, but in life, they’re my starting block. Continue reading
My current self in 23 words:
Wannabe at everything, but barely-am at most things. Addict just beginning recovery. When better, I will be an “am” at all those everythings.
Why I’m not yet naming my addiction in 23 words:
Irrelevance: I believe most addictions share similar qualities, so what is helpful for one – is helpful for them all. Okay, embarrassment too.
What I want in 23 words:
For you and for me: Full recovery, love and contentedness.
For me: Satisfaction with my work as a writer. (Plus some world travel).
Purpose of this blog in 23 words:
Practicing discipline, as well as understanding new medium for future career purposes. Once understood, hope to turn it into a creative writing wonderland.
• Completely Unrelated – Something else I’m indirectly about: 70s/80s experimental rock bands.
Those knives were unwrapped from mummifying layers of tape and paper last night. They look pretty fancy on the countertop, black-handled and shiny. I may use them a couple times a month, but it’s nice to know they’re there. Continue reading
The knife block in my kitchen has been waiting to be stuck with a dozen knives since July. In my bedroom there’s a 14-inch pile of ratty clothes that need to be sewn. I have posted one blog note since I opened this account in October. Oh, and I haven’t even started to start doing my taxes even though I’ve had all the necessary papers sitting on my desk for a couple weeks now.
I have a problem sitting down. Continue reading
“I never know what I think about something until I read what I’ve written on it,” said William Faulkner.
A few years ago, I wrote almost every day. Unnecessary writing, you know — no professor, boss or organization put me up to it. I kept a journal, I wrote detailed and lengthy emails to my dearest friends, I scribbled ideas for stories on any scrap of paper within arm’s reach. And I always knew what to say. Not only did I understand my own thoughts well enough to sound intelligent when I spoke, but in general I communicated better than I do today. Continue reading