And your thoughts, your thoughts, your thoughts…they chase you while you walk down the street and yell at you over the TV and sing to you while the radio plays and finally, late at night, eyes are burning, streaming, they catch up and whisper and it’s the loudest thing you’ve heard all day.
If you’re twenty-two, physically fit, hungry to learn and be better, I urge you to travel— as far and as widely as possible. Sleep on floors if you have to. Find out how other people live and eat and cook. Learn from them— wherever you go.
— Anthony Bourdain
He pulled herself up, after a few moments of reflection. That was all he seemed to do in those days. Feeling tired and tired of feeling. Worried that he’d amount to nothing more than a treatise written on a foggy shower door, gone in an instant and invisible forever.
Job hunting is one of the most demoralizing things that can happen to a person.
Excerpt from a short story I finished a few weeks ago.
“I’m working on a book. It’s hard to finish, and I think that’s because it’s hard to get focused. I’ve had a lot of trouble focusing lately. Ample trouble. Sufficient trouble. I’m thinking of writing a book about this girl who tries to write a lot of books, but never finishes them. I’m thinking that I’ll try and get it published without including the ending so that it’s really ironic, or something.
“It’s tremendously artistic,” the critics will say. “Terribly literary.” And they’ll take a drag off a cigarette and lift a glass of wine to their lips.
Maybe the real irony is that I’ll never even start it.”
Throw your head into the pillow
A Sigh Of Relief
I finally, really, truly, actually, finally, really, finally FINISHED writing my novel. I believe it is the final draft. Oh, how I HOPE it’s the final draft, because I’ve read the words so many times I think I hate them now…
It’s my first effort, and is very genre-specific, but I am proud nonetheless!
Aren’t you proud of me?
In the cool light of dawn we can see where the bridge stops abruptly, dipping below the surface, white tiles and black grout and yellow lights and eventually you emerge and look for the end.
Hurricane at our backs; gotta get home.
“Stairs are where I go
When the noise is pressing in
The pressure of the sound is greater than the sound of silence.”
“You’ll make it to the other side, alright,” he screams and you just keep running. “But you’re not gonna be the same once you get there.”
…I’m working on a flash-fiction piece (1100 words) which Must Not Be Published Online - anyone willing to give it a quick critique (i.e. is it worth submitting?) - answer the question or send me an ask @ thedrawbridge.tumblr.com/ask. Please?
Started a new job! Now convinced more than ever that WRITING is the thing for me as the miscellaneous part-time jobs only get worse and worse…
However! A poem I wrote was just published over on thescarletsound.com - which is pretty cool, so please go check it out!
(PS - I miss you tumblr buddies!)